He showed up at my apartment that night, unannounced, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, standing on my doorstep like he expected me to slam the door in his face the second I saw him.I didn't.I spent the hours since the equipment room convincing myself. I imagined the whole thing. The bench, the confession about his father, the way he looked at me like I was worth finding. So when I opened the door and he was there, real under my porch light, I just stood there for a second, forgetting how doors worked."Can I come in?" he asked."Yeah. Sorry. Yes."My apartment wasn't much of a studio . I split the rent with nobody, because Amara had her own place across campus and I'd wanted, for once in my life, somewhere that was only mine. I watched him take it in, the shot charts taped to the wall, the corkboard covered in prints, the laptop I borrowed from Amara sitting open on the kitchen table with three years of backed-up footage pulled up on the screen."You weren't kidding," he said
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