First Click
Most people don't remember the first time they liked someone. I do.
Not love — I wasn't old enough for that. But the first time I had a crush? That stayed with me.
It was the summer I turned seven. The year Mum finally got her driver's license. I didn't know then how much courage it took her to even get behind the wheel, let alone take us all the way to the beach by herself. But I remember the car — a tiny beige Peugeot that shuddered every time she changed gears, and the big red "L" plate taped crookedly to the back window. I remember how she sat up too straight in the driver's seat, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, like the road might throw her off if she blinked.
Cars kept zipping past us, blaring their horns. One man yelled something through his window — I couldn't hear the words, but I heard the anger. Mum flinched like she'd been slapped.
"Stupid," she muttered, not at him, I think, but at herself. Her jaw tightened, and she kept her eyes locked on the road.
I was in the back seat, legs sticking to the leather, pressing my face to the window. I liked watching the world move — green fields rolling past, flashes of stone fences, a shimmer of blue on the horizon that I hoped was the ocean. My nose made a little foggy circle on the glass.
"Are we there yet?" I asked for what was probably the umpteenth time.
Mum sighed. "Almost, chérie. Just a little further."
Her voice was soft, but tired. She always sounded tired in those days.
Mum was thirty-eight that year, but she looked older. Maybe it was the way she always wore her hair pulled back in a loose, tired bun. Or how her shoulders stayed slightly hunched, like she was always bracing for something. Her clothes were simple — a cream linen dress that wrinkled as soon as she sat down, and sensible sandals that left square little imprints in the sand.
People said I looked more like Dad — wild curls, pale skin that burned fast, and sharp green eyes that always made me look like I was thinking. Mum said I was "full of questions," which was a nice way of saying I didn't know when to shut up. I didn't like dolls much, or dresses, or sitting still. What I did like was my new red camera — a birthday present. It was plastic, bulky, and kind of ugly, but it was mine. And it had belonged to Dad.
He had been an artist. A good one, from what I've been told. A little too good, maybe, since some people claimed he'd stolen his most famous design. I never believed it. Neither did Mum. That year, the camera became my way of keeping him close. Like if I could see the world the way he did, I'd understand him better.
We finally arrived late in the afternoon. The ocean unfolded in front of us like something from a postcard. Mum exhaled so deeply it made the car shake. She parked — barely — and switched off the engine.
"I did it," she whispered, almost like she was surprised.
I unbuckled before she could say another word. The door creaked open and warm air hit my face, salty and sweet. I tumbled out, sneakers hitting the asphalt. "We're heeere!" I shouted, spinning in a circle like a cartoon character.
"Léa, wait!" Mum called. "Stay where I can see you!"
"I'm not going far!" I shouted back, already skipping ahead.
Behind me, I heard her gathering things from the boot — the cooler, a blanket, the folding chair that always pinched her fingers.
I made a beeline for the rocks near the edge of the beach. They looked like giant, sleepy turtles, dark and round, half-buried in the sand. I climbed up onto one, holding my camera tightly against my chest. It still smelled like salt and old plastic.
The beach was full of noise — kids screaming, seagulls squawking, radios playing different songs at once. But here, by the rocks, the only sound was the tide sliding in and out. I knelt down and aimed the camera at the sky. A gull swept past, wings stretched wide, just as the sun started dipping low behind it.
Click.
I smiled.
Then I heard them.
"Well, look at the little photographer," a voice sneered.
I turned.
Three boys stood a few feet away. Older. Maybe ten or eleven. All skinny limbs and sunburned faces. One of them had a freckled nose and a big gap between his teeth. He grabbed one of my sketch pages from the sand — I'd brought a few with me — and crumpled it.
"What's this? A bird? Looks like a potato with wings."
I jumped up. "Give it back!"
Another boy kicked sand over my drawing pad. The one with my favorite seagull. I tried to grab it, but they pushed it farther away with their feet, laughing.
"Crybaby!" one shouted. "Go home, crybaby!"
My chest ached. My throat tightened. I was trying so hard not to cry. Then the freckled one reached for my camera.
That's when I heard him.
"Hey!"
A single voice — clear, not loud, just... firm.
"Leave her alone."
All of us turned.
A boy stood a little way off. Not part of their group. Not part of mine. His hair was dark brown, messy like the wind liked playing with it, and he had sun-kissed skin and eyes so blue they didn't look real. He wore denim shorts and a bright green t-shirt with a picture of a pirate crab on it. Barefoot.
The leader squinted at him. "Who are you?"
The boy shrugged. "Someone who thinks you're being jerks."
"Mind your business," one of the other boys said.
"She's not bothering anyone," the boy replied, stepping closer. "Go find your own sand to kick."
There was something about him — not big or threatening, just... calm. The kind of calm that makes people stop.
The boys backed off, muttering, pretending they weren't bothered. They walked away like they had somewhere better to be, but I knew they didn't.
The boy came up to me and crouched down. "Are you okay?"
I nodded. Sort of.
He brushed the sand off my camera carefully before handing it back. "That was a cool shot, by the way. The gull. It looked awesome."
I blinked. "You saw it?"
He smiled. He had a little gap between his front teeth too, but his smile was warm — real. "Yeah. You've got a good eye."
He picked up the crumpled sketch and smoothed it gently on his knee. "This bird is better than anything I could draw. I mostly draw stick figures. And they look weird."
That made me laugh — a small, shaky laugh that surprised me.
"I'm Thomas," he said. "We're camping just over that dune. My dad's trying to cook with one of those fake stoves and it's mostly smoke."
"I'm Léa," I said. "My mum and I drove here today. Just us."
"Cool," he said. "Wanna see something funny?"
I hesitated.
"It's just over here. A crab I found earlier. I think it's the leader of the beach crabs. He has attitude."
He led me to a little tide pool. Inside, a crab with one oversized claw was climbing across a rock like it owned the place.
"See him?" Thomas whispered. "My dad says bullies are like crabs — all shell, no brain."
I snorted. "Does that mean crabs are dumb?"
"Probably. But I still like them."
We sat there for a long time — watching seaweed sway and tiny creatures scuttle in the water. We talked about school, cartoons, what we wanted to be when we grew up (he said a basketball player, I said a wildlife photographer). The tide moved slowly around us, like time didn't matter.
When the sun started sinking low, Thomas offered to walk me back. I let him. I didn't want the day to end.
"Mom!" I called as we reached our spot. She looked up from her book, squinting.
"There you are! I told you not to go so far."
"This is Thomas," I said quickly, smiling like my face couldn't help it. "He helped me. Some boys were being mean."
Thomas gave a little wave. "They left when I asked."
Mum gave him a look — the kind grown-ups give strangers — but then nodded and smiled. "Well... thank you, Thomas. That was kind of you."
We didn't stay much longer after that. But before we left, I saw him again. He was with his dad, both of them laughing at something. His hair flopped into his face and he pushed it back and grinned. His laugh — it was this open, warm sound that I felt in my chest.
And without even thinking, I raised my camera.
Click.
I didn't know why I took that photo. Not yet.
But now, looking back, I think it was the moment my heart noticed someone else — really noticed. Not in a big romantic way. Not love. Just... something.
