THERE ARE TIMES when even in your own life, you are but a blur. It is as if you go through the movements of your daily routine, but you are lost. It is as if your mind is wandering somewhere other than the exact location where you really are. That is how I feel.

And it is why I am confused as I sit alone in a booth in a wear-and-tear diner.

In my hands is my notepad, scrawled in elegantly chicken-foot writing with multiple sentences crossed out in frustration. My pen is somewhere on the floor, and I hope I had remembered to put the cap back on. In front of me on the table is my Nikon camera, fully charged though only used twice. Beside it is a lukewarm cup of green tea -- only filled halfway as I had taken a few small sips.

The atmosphere of the diner is calming but it does nothing to calm my bundle of nerves.

It has been four days since Churai had asked me to join the newspaper club — as both the music columnist and photographer. It has been four days since I shook my head no but the club president had grinned and exclaimed, "Glad to have you on board!" In those four days, I have simply and utterly been confused.

My first assignment, and priority Churai adds, is to find some source of local music to showcase in the newsletter. Therefore, another Phoenix member -- Carlos -- had given me a long list of places to visit in hopes of scouring out the next big thing.

There had been thirty-seven names on that list. And the article is due by the next week.

Despite not knowing Clark, I suddenly empathize with him.

Dutifully, I cross out number seventeen and let out a meek sigh. I take one more sip of the tea but since it is cold, I wrinkle my nose and shake my head before pushing it away. So far, this diner's musical act had consisted of a poorly executed rendition of Wonderwall by Oasis, a harmonica improvisation, and a selection from Disney's The Lion King.

In an attempt to cure myself of my imminent boredom, I simply take to taking pictures of the antique decor in the diner. There are two fantastic shots of the jukebox that is nestled in the back corner of the restaurant - its glass is cracked and buttons no longer aglow. The effect it has is haunting, despite the upbeat atmosphere of its surroundings.

"Are you finished, miss?" A voice to my right asks. I glance up at the young woman with lavender hair tied neatly into a messy bun, her expression bright despite the rings underneath her eyes. She holds a coffee pot in one hand and a towel in the other. Her name tag reads Imogen. I offer a smile and nod, pointing to the checkbook sticking out of her white apron. "Check? Coming right up."

She leaves with the grace of a ballerina, ducking underneath another employee carrying stacks of plates in one hand. The exchange is so smooth, as if they do it on a regular basis. I notice the expression on the waiter's face, the way his lips start to curve as his coworker passes. The way he starts to mouth a greeting but pauses as if thinking. The way his gaze falls on her for a moment longer than necessary. As their gazes meet, she offers a smile and he returns the gesture, before the two split apart once more.

The camera in my hands is already snapping another shot even before I can realize it.

Luckily, they do not manage to see; I quickly duck the camera back underneath the table. I view the image, and the resolution of skinny love quickly fills the screen. It is a perfect shot. The background is blurry, while the focus sharpens only on the two. The girl's cheeks have a rosy flush, and the boy's grin is full. I smile, and wonder momentarily what loving like that will feel like.

"Here you go," the waitress's voice reappears and I jump, quickly exiting out the photo. But it isn't quick enough. She widens her eyes and points to the black screen on my camera. "Was that-?"

I quickly shake my head, my cheeks stinging as they flamed in embarrassment. I scribble on the notepad. I'm sorry I took your picture without permission. I can delete it if you want?

Imogen seems to pause, lost for words. For a second she is speechless and then she is leaning over me to press the view button on my camera. The image of her and the waiter reappear, and her gaze seems to soften at it. "It's beautiful."

I write on the notepad, You're beautiful. You and him. Together.

She glances at me, the pink blossoming once more on her cheeks. "Oh, n-no. It's not - I mean. It's not like that." I stare at her. She looks down at her feet. "Do you... do you really think so?" I nod at her. Her hands gingerly scoop up my camera as I offer it to her, and she smiles at the photo.

"Immy," says a deep masculine voice, and Imogen seems to halt in her steps. We both turn and the waiter is standing there, holding up a piece of paper. His brown hair is sticking up in all angles; it's as if he can't be bothered to comb it. I spot his name tag: Alexander. "Can you ring up table four for me, please?"

"Y-yeah," Imogen stammers at his sudden appearance, "Sure thing."

"Cool, thanks," Alexander smiles and his gaze floats downward. "Hey, what's that?" He reaches out to grab my camera and Imogen pulls away with the speed of a cheetah. "Immy." Alexander pouts.

"It's nothing!" Imogen exclaims, her cheeks an alarming shade of crimson.

"If it's nothing, why won't you let me see?"

"Because!"

"Because?"

"Because."

"Imogen," Alex sighs. He turns as if to leave and Imogen relaxes, when he suddenly pulls back and grabs the camera out of her hands before I can blink. His thumbs skims the view button, and the picture of him and her reappear. Soon, Alex is the one with the blush. Imogen has to look away. "Who took this?"

"She did," Imogen replies quietly, gesturing to myself. I sink lower in my seat.

"This is a really good photograph," he manages to choke out, and I nod to say thank you. "It really captures... well, us." He says this to Imogen.

"That's what I thought." she says quietly. The two share a long, meaningful look - they speak without words, and I grin. The power of silence. At once, they break away. Alex coughs. Imogen turns to me. "Do you think you could send this to me? Please? I can write down my email for you."

I nod and Imogen tears a piece of napkin paper from the table, taking the pen from behind her ear and scribbling down a few words. "Thank you," she says and it is sincere. Alex mumbles his thank you as well.

He turns to Imogen with a teasing look. "You better send that to me too."

"Yeah, yeah," she grins, and soon they are back to themselves. Imogen hands me the check and says again, "Thank you." I smile once more and dig out a few bills, before writing on the other half of the napkin, Keep the change.

Without another word, I gather up my things -- taking care to put the napkin in a safe spot in my bag --and Alexander hands me my camera. I nod at them, and then exit the building.

As I walk down the sidewalk, I look around at the small town I grew up in. The familiar, old buildings hug me from both sides, their exteriors wear-and-tear but their existence and story eternal; streetlights are placed every few steps, their lights dim in the dusk of the night. I know I need to head home. Before my father and mother begin to worry again.

A light drizzle starts up, and soon my fiery hair is in danger of being extinguished. With only a wool sweater to keep me warm, I sigh as the rain begins to pick up. Yet, a shadow moves out of the corner of my eye and suddenly there is no more liquid falling on my head. I glance up, only to see a green umbrella placed above, effectively blocking out the rain.

"Fancy bumping into you here," says a voice to my left. Chase stands there with one hand holding on to the umbrella and the other deep in his pockets. His eyes are alight and his expression is more than amused. I arch an eyebrow at him, though my heart flutters in my chest.

Stalker, I mouth at him. Chase lets out a warm laugh, adjusting the umbrella cane in his grasp. He explains, "Just got out of practice." Taking a closer look at his profile, I realize his hair is even more tussled than usual, beads of sweat still pouring from his hair, trailing to his cheek. His face is flushed, but still full of energy albeit a little tired looking.

I realize his shoulder is touching mine and I shyly pull away, hoping he doesn't notice. "So what brings you into the neighborhood?" asks Chase, looking for conversation.

I hold up a finger and dig into my bag, pulling the notepad and a pen. I scribble as we walk, my scrawl becoming more illegible than usual. I hope he can still read it. I've been exploring a career in journalism.

"Really?"

No, I sigh, it seems that I've been enlisted as an honorary member of the newspaper club: photographer and music columnist.

"That's pretty cool," Chase says, and I do not know if he is joking or not. He catches my dubious expression and he smirks. "No, I'm serious.I didn't know you were into music too."

I frown, Don't get your hopes up. I really don't know much.

"Come on, you've got to know the classics at least. The Beatles? The Libertines? The Strokes?"

Are you just naming objects? Because if there is a resemblance between the three, I have a C+ in English.

Chase laughs again, and I smile. His laugh is rich like honey, dripping with sincerity and the rumble of his baritone voice sends happy shivers up my spine. "Looks like I'll have to tutor you."

In music or English?

"Music, obviously," he winks and I blush. "I'm below average in Steinward's class too."

I jolt at that and write almost sheepishly, You're in her class too?

"Eleanor, I'm in your class." I stare at him and he rolls his eyes, nudging my arm with his elbow. I stagger from his force and he apologizes before adding, "I mean, I know you sit in the front and everything, but you've never glanced around before?" I shake my head.

This new information has me reeling. In truth, I really do not know who is in my classes. I barely look around, I never pair up or do group work, I sit in the front, and I simply stare out the window and imagine taking photographs rather than tune in to the teacher's mindless babble. But Chase is in my class? How could I have never noticed?

Sorry, I mouth. He says it's nothing. The rain begins to pour harder, pounding against the umbrella and bouncing off the sidewalk, soaking my shoes and jeans. Chase moves closer to continue keeping us both relatively dry.

"So is this newspaper club thing the reason why you've been skipping out on our practices?" I nod meekly, rubbing my arms and blowing out a cold breath. Chase pauses, making me halt in my movements. He starts to shrug off his Letterman jacket and I try to stop him but soon he is putting it around my shoulders and it smells of sheet music and guitar wood and Chase.

"Well, when you're busy not being Lois Lane-"

Peter Parker, I scribble hastily on the paper.

"Peter Parker," he corrects with a grin, "then you should come to our next practice tomorrow at lunch. The music tutoring can start there. Promise?" I glance down at the sidewalk -- the cracks are lining the pavement, the cement showing its age with the damage. I smile and nod at him.

"Great," Chase beams and it is blinding. He pauses in his tracks. "Remind me the way to your house again?"

I let out a small laugh.

↛

Damn cuties. Cuties everywhere.

Anyway, so what's the deal with this story? I'm doing Shutter for Camp NaNoWriMo and set my goal for 25000+ words. That means more frequent updates for this story (nearly daily) so thank you so much for your support. It means a lot! This chapter is dedicated to Saara because I think I made a new friend. c;

Comment. Vote. Promote.

-Isabelle