The first six weeks with Frank were like living inside someone else’s Instagram filter: soft lighting, gentle music, everything slightly out of focus in the best way. We texted constantly. Silly memes at 2 a.m. Photos of our coffees with captions like “thinking of you” even though we were literally meeting in twenty minutes. He called me “artist girl” and I pretended to hate it while secretly saving every instance in my notes app under “proof I’m loveable.” Our first real date (not coffee, not sketch feedback—actual Date) was his idea. A “secret location” he said. I spent three hours choosing an outfit that said “effortless but sexy but not trying too hard but also ready to be impressed.” I ended up in black jeans, a silk camisole that kept sliding off one shoulder, and boots that made me feel taller than I am. I looked like someone who might be dangerous in a good way. I felt like someone who might trip over her own ego. He picked me up on a borrowed motorbike because of course he did. No helmet for me—he’d “forgotten” the second one. I climbed on behind him, thighs pressed to his hips, arms around his waist, chin on his shoulder, and thought: This is how people die. Or fall in love. Same difference. He took me to a rooftop bar I didn’t know existed. Fairy lights. Overpriced cocktails. A view of the city that made everything feel cinematic. We drank something called “Midnight in Paris” which tasted like gin and bad decisions. He told me about his modelling gigs, how he’d recently bought a vintage Leica because “film makes you slow down and really see,” how he loved the quiet after everyone left the life room. I told him about my worst drawing (a potato with feelings), my mother’s megaphone phase, how I once cried in the art supply shop because they discontinued my favourite charcoal. We kissed on the rooftop. The kind of kiss that makes you forget gravity exists. His hands on my waist. My fingers in his hair. The city lights blurring below us. Perfect. Too perfect. I should have known.

Two weeks later he suggested a “spontaneous adventure.” I said yes because saying no felt like betraying the version of myself who was living in a filter. He drove us to a secluded beach an hour out of town. Late September. Still warm. Almost no one around. He spread out a blanket, opened a bottle of cheap rosé, and said, “Let’s go swimming.” I looked at the water. I looked at him. I looked at the very small pile of my clothes I’d brought. “I didn’t pack a swimsuit,” I said. He grinned. “That’s the point.” And then he stripped. Completely. No hesitation. Just peeled off his T-shirt, jeans, boxers, and walked toward the water like he was in a cologne ad. His back was glorious. His ass was glorious. The whole situation was glorious until I realised he expected me to follow. I stood there in my jeans and camisole, clutching the wine bottle like a shield. “I’m… shy?” I offered. He laughed, waist-deep now, arms open. “Come on, artist girl. It’s just us and the sea.” I don’t know if it was the rosé, the hormones, or the fear of being the boring one, but I did it. Jeans off. Camisole off. Underwear off. I ran into the water like I was being chased by dignity itself. We swam. We laughed. We kissed in the waves like people who believe they’ve invented romance. Then we got out. And discovered the tide had dragged the blanket—and all our clothes—halfway down the beach. We chased them naked. Slipping. Laughing. Tripping over seaweed. A dog walker appeared on the cliff path above us. We froze. He waved. We waved back. Like this was normal. Like two naked people chasing wet jeans was a legitimate Tuesday activity. We eventually retrieved everything. Wet. Sandy. But intact. We drove home in silence, grinning like idiots, my bare thighs sticking to the leather seat, his hand on my knee the entire way. I thought: This is it. This is love. Naked beach chases and zero shame. I was so wrong.

Week five. His flat. Tiny. Messy. Walls now covered not just in old sketches but in pinned-up prints from his new Leica obsession. A mattress on the floor because “bedframes are oppressive.” I didn’t care. I was in love with a man who said “oppressive” unironically and now carried a camera like it was an extension of his soul. He wanted to photograph me. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Let me capture you properly. Film is honest.” I agreed. Because when a man who once modelled nude for a living asks to photograph you nude, it feels like equality. It feels like trust. I stripped. Posed on the mattress. One arm above my head. One leg bent. Very classical. Very vulnerable. Very turned on. He shot for twenty minutes. Click. Advance film. Click. Adjust angle. Click. He murmured things like “the light on your hip is perfect” and “hold that tension in your back.” Then he put the camera down. Then he kissed me. Then clothes became irrelevant. It was good. Really good. Until the moment he whispered, mid-thrust: “Hold that pose. I want to finish the roll.” I froze. Literally. Mid-orgasm. He climbed off me, grabbed the Leica, and started shooting again. While I was still lying there. Legs open. Heart pounding. Existential crisis forming. I said, “Frank… I’m literally about to come.” He said, “Exactly. The tension in your body is perfect right now. Don’t move.” I laughed. Because what else do you do when the man you’re sleeping with wants to capture your almost-orgasm face on black-and-white film for posterity? I laughed until I cried. Then I came anyway. Then I threw a pillow at him. Then we fucked again. This time without the camera. But the damage was done. The seed of doubt had been planted. The man who was completely at ease naked in front of strangers was now treating my nakedness like a still-life assignment. And I started to realise: maybe his comfort with exposure wasn’t confidence. Maybe it was detachment. Maybe I was just another subject to be framed, lit, and developed.

By week seven the filter had begun to crack. The texts slowed, but not to nothing. The “artist girl” became “hey” more often, but he still used it sometimes. The dates became “if you’re free,” but he still asked. The sex became… functional. Still good. Still intimate. But now there was always the camera nearby. Not always used. But always there. A quiet third presence. He’d still photograph me sometimes. Not mid-thrust anymore (thank god). But in the mornings, soft light through the window, me half-asleep, sheet barely covering anything. He’d say things like “this one is going to be timeless” and “the grain is going to love your skin.” I’d smile. I’d pose. I’d let him. Because I still loved the way he looked at me through the viewfinder. Because I still loved the way he kissed me after. Because I still loved him. Or at least the version of him that existed in those first six weeks. But lately, when he developed the prints in his tiny darkroom (which used to be a closet), he’d pin them up on the wall like trophies. Not just of me. Of light. Of shadow. Of form. And I started to feel like one of the prints: studied. Appreciated. Beautifully lit. But ultimately just reference material. We’re still together. We still text. We still fuck. We still laugh. But I feel it. The bond is fraying. Not with a dramatic rip. With a slow, almost invisible unraveling. Like a film negative left too long in the developer—everything starts to blur at the edges. I haven’t said anything yet. I’m still hoping the next roll will capture something different. Something that feels like us. Not just me as subject. But me as person. For now, I stay. I pose. I smile for the lens. Because leaving feels bigger than staying. And because, deep down, I’m still the girl who claims the disaster instead of running from it. Even when the disaster is quiet. Even when it’s happening in soft focus. Even when it’s happening to a love that once felt like the sharpest, most honest thing in the world. I’ll decide soon. I always do. But for tonight, the shutter clicks. The light is perfect. And I’m still here. Lopsided. Unfinished. And—for now—still his.