Frame by frame

The first thing Naya notices about the studio is that it smells like chemicals pretending to be innocence.

White walls. Glass partitions. Too much light for a space meant to hold people who work with shadows.

She stands at the entrance longer than necessary, camera strap digging into her collarbone, as if waiting for the room to introduce itself properly. It doesn’t.

A staff member gestures vaguely. “Your workspace is shared.”

That word lands wrong. Shared.

Naya adjusts her bag and steps inside anyway.

There are already prints on the far wall.

Black-and-white portraits—too close, too intimate. A woman mid-laugh with tears in her eyes. A man staring directly into something just outside the frame. Nothing feels accidental. Everything feels extracted.

“Don’t touch those,” a voice says.

She turns.

He is leaning against the table like he owns the air around it.

Elijah.

Of course it’s him.

She recognizes his work immediately—not because she follows him, but because his images are impossible to ignore once seen. They stay in the mind like residue.

“You’re early,” he adds, as if this is a flaw she should correct.

“I’m on time,” Naya replies.

A faint smile. Not friendly. Not hostile either. Something worse—amused.

He pushes off the table slowly. “They didn’t tell you, did they?”

“Tell me what.”

“That we’re not just sharing space.”

A pause.

Naya sets her bag down carefully, like the act itself needs control. “Then explain it.”

Elijah gestures to the room. “We’re being paired.”

“For what?”

“Everything.”

The word feels like a trap.

Before she can respond, he walks past her, close enough that she catches the faint smell of ink and something sharper—coffee left too long, or sleep not taken seriously.

He stops beside her camera bag.

“You shoot people like you’re trying not to disturb them,” he says.

Naya doesn’t look at him. “And you shoot them like you want them to break.”

Silence.

Then, softly—almost pleased—“Good. You’ve seen my work properly.”

That is the problem, she thinks. She has seen it.

She turns to face him fully now. “If this is a collaboration setup, they should have asked for consent.”

“They didn’t ask either of us anything,” Elijah replies. “That’s the point.”

A staff member enters briefly, places a folder on the table, and leaves without ceremony.

Inside: residency guidelines. Final exhibition requirements.

One page stands out.

Final Project: Proximities — A Joint Exhibition

Naya reads it twice.

Then a third time, slower, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less absurd.

Elijah is already watching her.

“You hate it,” he says.

“I don’t know it yet.”

“That’s worse.”

She closes the folder. “This isn’t collaboration. This is forced proximity.”

He nods slightly. “Now you understand the title.”

Outside, somewhere beyond the glass walls, the city continues without them. Cars moving. People not aware that two strangers have just been assigned to reshape each other’s work—and possibly something more fragile than work.

Naya looks at him again, really looks this time.

Elijah is not what she expected.

Not arrogant in the loud way people warn you about. Not careless. If anything, too attentive. Like he notices everything and chooses exactly what to ignore.

That feels more dangerous.

“You’ll get in my way,” she says finally.

He tilts his head. “Or I’ll make you better.”

Naya picks up her camera.

A small, deliberate motion. Grounding.

“We’ll see,” she says.

And for the first time, Elijah’s expression shifts—just slightly, like something inside him has recognized a challenge worth keeping.