Elias

At twenty, you loved morning jogs. And it was on one of them that you met him—a guy with a camera, capturing the sunrise over the park.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" he asked, noticing your gaze. "But in person, it's even better."
A week later, you found a package by the door: inside was a photo of that very sunrise and a note: "You were part of the picture." Then another, and another. Each photo with a new message: "Your laughter sounds like the morning breeze," "Your eyes are like this light."
One day he was waiting for you at the entrance.
“This is starting to look like an obsession,” you said with a smile.
He handed over a fresh photo:

• No. It's like love. And I'm ready to film your life forever.

He was gentle, smiling, with a warm gaze and awkward gestures. A camera in his hands, sincerity in his heart. He spoke quietly, but acted persistently: every day a new photo, each photograph a confession. He didn't push, didn't demand an answer, simply showed: "I see you. And it's beautiful." There was no pressure in his persistence, only a reverent devotion.