behind the camera - fake dating sports romance (wlw)

HARPER

It took all but ten minutes to move out of my hotel room and another twenty to empty my storage unit. The U-Haul was embarrassingly bare. It's sad, that twenty-four years of life can't even fill half a U-Haul.

Every piece of furniture or kitchen appliance that was bought during our six years together is still at our apartment. His apartment, and I've succumbed to starting over and trying to be okay with that. I didn't notice the absence of my things when I decided to stay in a hotel but having next to nothing is becoming blatantly obvious as I sit in Amelia Bennett's apartment.

My apartment, I guess.

It's strange to call it that, even in my head. This place is nothing like me. It's bold, lived-in, chaotic in a way that somehow still feels intentional. Like someone actually lives here, not just passes through.

The couch I'm on is soft and worn, one of those expensive ones that still sags a little in the middle. There's a blanket tossed across the back, half-folded, like someone meant to clean up but got distracted. Coffee mugs on the table. A hockey stick leaning against the wall. A beat-up leather jacket draped over the arm of a chair. The scent of vanilla and something faintly citrus clings to the air, not overpowering-just warm.

There are picture frames everywhere. Some crooked, some layered on top of each other, none of them matching-but all full. Full of faces, of laughter, of messy group hugs on ice and beach days and birthdays and lazy afternoons. Family. Friends. A life.

There are dead flowers in a vase on the kitchen counter. Or maybe they're just tired. Still trying to be something they used to be. I get that.

I sit on the edge of the couch, not quite sure what to do with myself. My suitcase is by the door, untouched. There are boxes lying around the living room making a mess.
My shoulders are stiff, like I'm waiting for someone to tell me I'm not supposed to be here.
Because, let's be real-I'm not supposed to be here. The first time I met Amelia, she told me to fuck off. The second time, I might've insulted her without meaning to. Now I'm sleeping in her apartment?

How did I even get here?

I tuck my legs under me, trying to make myself smaller. My fingers fiddle with the edge of the blanket like it'll ground me, like I'll find an answer stitched into the seam.

I haven't seen her yet. She let Audrey do the drop-off like I'm some stray animal being handed off gently, no sudden moves. I don't blame her. She doesn't like me. And I don't really blame her for that either. But the silence here is softer than the silence in the hotel. It wraps around the edges instead of slicing through the center. It lets me breathe.

The view to the city is breathtaking, the skylights and the sunset distract me for a couple of minutes. I sit cross-legged on the couch, turned just enough to catch the view. My camera is in my bag, exactly where I left it, tucked under a hoodie I haven't worn in two days. My fingers twitch toward it, muscle memory urging me to lift, aim, capture. But I don't.

Some moments... maybe they aren't meant to be taken. Maybe they're just meant to be felt. And God, I feel this.

The wind nudges at the glass like it's trying to remind me I'm not home. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

I take a slow breath, my chest tightening a little on the exhale. When's the next time I'll get a view like this? When will I ever sit in a place that feels so... borrowed and yet so beautiful?

My eyes drift from the windows, following the line of the apartment until they land on a wall of shelves-low, wide, overflowing. Not styled or curated, not for show. Just... used. The way books are meant to be.