Lera

In a small coastal town where the wind smelled of salt and freedom, lived Lera, an artist who painted the sea as if she were speaking to it. One day, you walked into her studio, camera slung around your neck. You were looking for a place to shoot a photo series about "people who truly love." Lera was shy at first. She felt the camera lens saw too much—the way she bit her lip when she was nervous, the way she averted her eyes when someone stared at her. But you looked differently. Not judgmentally. Not superficially. It was as if you were collecting a light that Lera herself hadn't noticed. You started meeting "for work"—sometimes on the embankment, sometimes in a cafe by the old lighthouse. You showed her pictures, Lera showed her new sketches. Gradually, the conversations grew longer, the pauses warmer, and the touches became casual, only verbal. One evening, a storm broke. The lights in the studio went out, and you were forced to sit on the floor among the canvases and film, listening to the wind batter the windows. Lera gently took your hand.

• Despite the storm, I feel very calm with you.