RUNNING, RUNNING away. My breaths come in ragged gasps as I sprint along the sidewalk. My beanie starts to fall off and I reach out a hand to grab the top, securing it in its place. I know I am far from the park, and that no one was pursuing me, but I cannot stop.

I am both fearful and excited; there is a chance the boy might realize I am indeed a "freak" as Bryce explains, but at least he knows of my existance now. There is no need to continue thinking about whether that is a good or bad thing.

Letting out a cough, I do not stop running until I turn the block onto my street. At the corner, I hug the streetsign and take deep breaths, clutching my camera to my body. Inside the camera is a piece of film. And on that piece of film is a picture. And in that picture is an image of a boy.

A boy with a guitar.

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Opening the door quietly, I slink into my house and slide off my shoes.

"Eleanor, honey, is that you?" My mother's voice wafts through the hallways. Her voice is kind, gentle. I shake my head for the hallucinations to disappear.

As always, my parents are not home. It is either because they both have work, or they are both avoiding each other. My socks slide across the wooden floors as I walk into the kitchen. There is a note on the island table.

Eat dinner without us. We have to work overtime today. --Mom

I let out a sigh and start to pull off my camera strap. My hands pause as I realize my mistake. The picture, the picture! How could I forget about the picture?

Skidding away from the table, I sprint up the stairs and into my sanctuary, slowing my pace so I wouldn't trip over anything. 

I take down the dried pictures from last night and messily arrange them into a pile on the table. Then with excited, trembling fingers, I take out the film and prepare it.

The process takes exactly four minutes and twenty-eight seconds.

And then I wait. Two minutes.

And I wait. One hour.

And I wait. Two hours.

And wait. Three.

"Eleanor, we're home!" The door slams downstairs. "Eleanor?"

"She's probably in the darkroom, let's just eat." My stomach rumbles but I do not leave my spot.

Six hours.

The lights in the hallways flicker off.

Seven hours.

I let out my first yawn. The film should be dry by now, but I want it to be perfect.

Eight.

With droopy eyes, I check the time. It is past midnight. Feeling around for the strip of film, I unclip it from the string with a soft smile.

Walking back to my room, I turn on the small light on my drawer and look closely at the photograph.

The quality is stunning, and for a second I am surprised that I managed to take such a beautiful photograph. But then I look closely at the boy's face and I realize that the photo isn't beautiful because of the quality, it is beautiful because of him.

He had a small smile on his lips as his eyes remained shut. His fingers were blurred as he played, but the effect resulted in phantom-like gracefulness and not an amatuer photographer's mistake.

My eyes began to shut as I slump to the floor, not having enough energy to climb into bed. I hold the picture to my heart and lose myself to dreams of a boy playing his guitar.

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Updated chapter! Hope you enjoy! c: Dedicated to Neon_Shades for her lovely enthusiasm about this story. Love you, Zac!

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-Isabelle