By: Ranjan Sarkhel

Introduction

Mrs. E returns for her second Saturday, now calling herself by that name. She shows Ethan more photos — sunsets with coffee cups, Bagel the dog, rainy windows.

She reveals these were taken through her late daughter Sarah’s way of seeing, and that Mia inherited it. Mrs. E shares that Mia stopped photographing herself after a car accident left her with a scar.

Ethan learns Mia prefers watching to being watched. He realizes he’s genuinely curious about her — not just her photos, but her.

A slow burn curiosity takes root, growing stronger with each passing Saturday.

The next Saturday, Mrs. Park arrived early.

Key points

5 Key Points of the Story

• Unexpected Beginning: A college student volunteers at a community center and meets a determined grandmother.
• The Photographs: Every Saturday, he sees pictures of a mysterious granddaughter and slowly falls for her.
• Hidden Grief: Beneath the weekly lessons lies a story of loss that has shaped the grandmother’s quiet determination.
• The Secret Plan: The photos are part of a carefully crafted attempt to heal a broken family.
• Love Through Kindness: What begins as simple volunteer work becomes an unexpected journey toward belonging and emotional restoration.

” I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once.”
— John Green, from his 2012 novel, The Fault in Our Stars

Chapter 1: Every Saturday Morning When It All Began

Ethan never planned to fall in love on a Saturday morning.

In fact, he barely planned to be there at all.

The Maplewood Community Center was an old building with squeaky floors and radiators that hissed like angry cats.

It smelled like instant coffee and aging paper.

Not exactly where a twenty-one-year-old college student wants to spend his weekends.

But here he was.

The volunteer work was his professor’s idea. “Looks good on resumes,” she had said.

“Shows patience. Shows community engagement.”

Ethan needed both on his resume, so here he sat every Saturday with his tote bag full of patience and his old university hoodie, ready to teach a room full of seniors how to navigate the digital world.

He expected slow progress. He expected repeating himself. He did not expect Mrs. Eleanor Park.

She walked in at 9 AM sharp on his very first Saturday.

Seventy-two years old, silver hair pinned up so neatly it looked like a photograph, and reading glasses that sat crooked on her nose no matter how many times she pushed them up.

She carried her smartphone like it was a live grenade — both hands, arms slightly extended, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You must be the tech boy,” she announced, settling into the chair across from him.

“Ethan,” he corrected gently. “And yes, I’m here to help.”

She placed the phone on the table between them like she was surrendering a weapon.

“This little devil has been torturing me for six months. My granddaughter got it for me. Said it would help me stay connected.”

She sniffed. “The only thing it connects me to is frustration.”

Ethan bit back a smile. “I can help with that. What would you like to learn first?”

Mrs. Park leaned forward, her crooked glasses catching the fluorescent light.

“I don’t need to learn everything. I’m seventy-two. I don’t have time for everything. I just need to know one thing.”

“Okay. What’s that?”

“How to see photos. My granddaughter sends me photos.

Almost every day, she sends them. And I can see the little notification pop up, but then…” She waved her hands vaguely.

“They disappear into the devil. I don’t know where they go. I don’t know how to find them again. It’s like they never existed.”

Ethan nodded slowly. “Photos are important to you?”

For just a second, something shifted in her eyes. Something softer. Something sadder.

“They’re all I have of her some days,” she said quietly.

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed.

She straightened up and pointed at the phone. “So. Teach me, boy. Before this thing steals another memory.”

Ethan smiled and picked up the phone. “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

He showed her how to unlock the screen. How to find the photos app.

How to scroll through the gallery.

She watched intently, nodding, occasionally muttering “mountain icon” under her breath like she was memorizing it.

And then she started scrolling.

“This is Mia at the farmer’s market,” she said, tilting the screen toward him. “She loves sunflowers. Takes after her grandfather.”

Ethan glanced at the photo. Pretty girl. Nice smile. He nodded politely.

“And this — this is at her rooftop. She goes up there every evening when the sky turns pink. Says it’s her meditation.”

Another polite nod.

“Oh, look here.” Mrs. Park chuckled. “She tried to bake macarons.

They came out like little rocks. But she was so proud, she photographed them anyway.”

Ethan looked closer at that one. The macarons were indeed lumpy and sad.

But the photo itself — the way the light hit them, the way they were arranged on the plate — it felt intentional.

Like someone had looked at failure and decided it was still worth remembering.

“That one’s my favorite,” he said.

Mrs. Park blinked. “The failed macarons?”

“Yeah. Anyone can photograph something beautiful.

But photographing something that turned out wrong?

That takes a different kind of eye.” He shrugged. “Makes her seem real, I guess. Not just… pretty pictures.”

The old woman stared at him for a long moment.

Then, slowly, a smile spread across her face.

“You’re an interesting young man, Ethan.”

“I’m really not.”

“We’ll see,” she said mysteriously. She stood, tucking the phone into her purse. “Same time next Saturday?”

“Same time.”

At the door, she paused and looked back at him. “Ethan? Thank you. For not just teaching. For actually looking.”

And then she was gone.

Ethan sat there for a moment, unsure what had just happened.

He’d shown her how to open photos. That was it. Nothing special.

But something in her voice — something in the way she’d said “actually looking” — made him feel like he’d passed some kind of test he didn’t know he was taking.

He shrugged it off and packed his bag. Just another Saturday.

He had no idea that this was only the beginning.

Little did Ethan know, those photos Mrs. Park wanted to see were about to become the center of his Saturdays — and the start of a slow burn curiosity that would pull him deeper into her world with each passing week.

—

Chapter 2: The Photos That Sparked a Slow Burn Curiosity

Ethan was still setting up his laptop when she appeared at his table, already holding her phone like a trophy instead of a weapon.

“I’ve been practicing,” she announced, settling into her usual chair with a satisfied smile. “Unlock. Find mountain. Scroll. I did it every single day. Even Tuesday, and I hate Tuesdays.”

Ethan laughed. “That’s great, Mrs. Park.”

“Call me Eleanor. If we’re going to do this every Saturday, we should be on first-name terms.”

She paused, tilting her head. “Or Mrs. E. That’s what the nice man at the grocery store calls me. Makes me feel mysterious.”

“Mrs. E it is.”

She nodded, clearly pleased. “Now. Today I want to learn something new. But first…” She pulled up her photo gallery and turned the phone toward him. “Tell me what you see.”

Ethan looked at the screen. A sunset. Beautiful. Orange and pink bleeding into each other over a city skyline, the kind of photo that belonged on a postcard.

“It’s a sunset,” he said.

“Obviously. What else?”

He looked closer. The photo wasn’t just a sunset. There was a coffee cup in the foreground, resting on a metal railing.

A faint lipstick stain marked the rim.

“Someone was drinking coffee while watching the sunset,” Ethan said slowly. “And they didn’t wipe the cup before photographing it.”

“Good. What else?”

He scrolled to the next photo. A small dog, fast asleep on a wooden floor, afternoon light falling across its belly like a warm blanket.

“Your grand daughter really loves that dog.”

“His name is Bagel. She rescued him from a shelter. He was the ugliest puppy there, so of course she chose him.” Mrs. E smiled fondly. “Keep going.”

Ethan scrolled further. A page of a book, a paragraph underlined so enthusiastically the paper was slightly torn.

A single weed pushing through a crack in the pavement, yellow flowers blooming defiantly.

A rainy window with drops caught mid-slide, the world outside blurred and dreamy.

He stopped on that one. Studied it.

“She’s not just taking pictures,” he said quietly. “She’s… collecting moments. Like each one matters.

Even the small ones. Especially the small ones.”

Mrs. E was silent for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer than usual.

“That’s exactly what her mother used to say. ‘Collect moments, not things.’ Sarah had a thousand photos of ordinary life. Burnt toast. Falling leaves. The way Bagel’s ears flop when he runs.”

Ethan looked up. “Her mother?”

“My daughter. Mia’s mom.” Mrs. E’s eyes stayed on the phone screen. “She passed away. Seven years ago now.”

The words landed gently but firmly. Ethan didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t good at heavy moments.

He was good at teaching apps and fixing settings.

But he heard himself speak anyway.

“I’m sorry. But… you said ‘used to say.’ Present tense. Like she’s still here.”

Mrs. E’s eyes widened slightly.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice weird stuff. Occupational hazard of teaching seniors. You learn to pay attention to small things.”

The old woman studied him for a moment. Then she nodded slowly, as if confirming something to herself.

“Mia used to photograph herself, you know,” Mrs. E continued. “When she was younger. Selfies, mirror shots, all of it. Typical teenage girl. She had her mother’s eyes, everyone said so. Same shape, same way of crinkling when she laughed.”

She paused. Ethan waited.

“Then there was an accident. A car accident, about a year after Sarah passed. Mia survived. But her face…” Mrs. E touched her own jawline gently. “The glass did things. The doctors fixed what they could. But she doesn’t photograph herself anymore. She photographs everything else. The world through her eyes, but never her eyes themselves.”

The room felt very quiet. Even the radiators seemed to hold still.

Ethan looked back at the photos on the phone. The sunset. The dog. The rain on the window. All beautiful. All hiding the person behind the camera.

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked quietly.

Mrs. E met his gaze steadily. “Because you actually look, Ethan. You don’t just glance and say something polite. You see the failed macarons and call them real. You see a coffee cup with lipstick and wonder about the person holding it.” She leaned forward. “Mia needs someone who sees. Not just her photos. Her.”

Ethan’s heart did something uncomfortable in his chest.

“I don’t even know her,” he said.

“No. But you’re curious about her, aren’t you?”

He opened his mouth to deny it. Closed it. Took a breath.

“…Maybe.”

Mrs. E smiled. Not her usual mischievous smile. Something warmer.

“Good. Curiosity is where it starts.” She straightened up, her brisk demeanor returning. “Now. Teach me something useful. How do I make these photos into an album? So they’re all together, not scattered like my grandchildren’s attention spans.”

Ethan blinked at the sudden shift. But he picked up her phone and showed her how to create albums, how to organize, how to name folders.

“Call this one ‘Mia’s World,'” Mrs. E instructed. “And this one ‘Bagel Being Perfect.’ And this one…”

She kept talking, but Ethan’s mind drifted.

He kept thinking about the girl behind the camera. The one who saw magic in rain on windows but couldn’t look at her own reflection.

The one who collected moments because maybe collecting herself was too painful.

Over the next few weeks, the routine became familiar.

Every Saturday, Mrs. E arrived with a new question about her phone. How to adjust brightness.

How to stop notifications from “that awful news app that keeps yelling at me.” How to send photos to a printer so she could have real copies, “not just ghost images in the cloud.”

And every Saturday, after the lesson, she showed him new photos.

Mia at a bookstore, surrounded by towering shelves, her hand reaching for a worn spine. Mia at a park, feeding bread crumbs to pigeons, Bagel straining at his leash in the background. Mia’s hands holding a steaming mug, the scar along her jaw just visible at the edge of the frame — accidental or intentional, Ethan couldn’t tell.

He started noticing things. The way Mia tilted her head when reading. The way she held her camera — always a real camera, not just her phone — like it was an extension of herself. The way she seemed more present in her photos than most people did in posed portraits.

“She’s never smiling,” Ethan observed one Saturday.

Mrs. E raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“In the photos. She’s never smiling at the camera. She’s smiling at things. At Bagel, at books, at sunsets. But never directly at whoever’s taking the picture.”

“Sharp observation.” Mrs. E nodded approvingly. “She doesn’t like being watched. Prefers to be the one watching.”

“That sounds lonely.”

“Sometimes it is.”

The words hung in the air. Ethan looked at the photo on the screen — Mia laughing at something off-frame, her whole face alive with joy, the scar just a thin line against her skin.

He realized, suddenly, that he wanted to be the person making her laugh like that.

The thought startled him.

He barely knew her. He’d never even met her. All he had were photos and an old woman’s stories.

But somewhere between the failed macarons and the rainy windows, something had shifted inside him.

A slow burn curiosity that started small was growing into something he couldn’t ignore.

He didn’t know yet that the photos weren’t what they seemed. He didn’t know Mrs. E had a plan that had been running longer than he could imagine.

All he knew was that Saturdays had become the best day of his week.

And it wasn’t because of the phone lessons.

—

That evening, Ethan sat in his small apartment, scrolling through photos on his own phone. Not Mia’s photos — he didn’t have those. Just random shots from his own life. A pizza he’d ordered. A tree outside his window. His roommate’s cat doing something ridiculous.

Ordinary things.

He zoomed in on the cat photo, studying the way the light hit its fur. He’d never really looked at his own photos before. Not the way he looked at Mia’s.

What would she see in this? he wondered. What would she find worth remembering?

He put down his phone and stared at the ceiling.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered. “You’ve never even met her.”

But his heart didn’t seem to care about logic.

It was already counting the days until next Saturday.

—

 Chapter 3: A Grandmother’s Secret and a Student’s Doubts

By the sixth Saturday, Ethan had stopped pretending.

He looked forward to Mrs. E showing up. He looked forward to her stories. He looked forward to the photos.

Especially the photos.

“Good morning, young man,” Mrs. E called out as she sailed through the community center doors, her silver hair catching the weak winter sunlight.

She carried a small paper bag in one hand and her phone in the other. “I brought you something.”

She placed the bag on the table in front of him. Ethan peeked inside. A blueberry muffin. Still warm.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Eat. You’re too thin. My granddaughter says boys your age survive on energy drinks and regret. I refuse to enable that.”

Ethan laughed and took a bite. “This is really good.”

“Of course it is. I made it.” She settled into her chair with a satisfied sigh. “Now. Today I have a real problem for you.”

“Okay. What’s wrong?”

She held up her phone. “The devil has changed its face. Everything is different. There’s no mountain. There’s no home button. I woke up this morning and it had betrayed me overnight.”

Ethan glanced at the screen and immediately understood. “Oh. You got an update. The operating system upgraded.”

“The what now?”

“Your phone updated itself. New software. It changes the look of things, but everything still works the same. Just… rearranged.”

Mrs. E stared at him like he’d just told her the laws of physics had been repealed. “It can just… change itself? Without asking?”

“Yes.”

“Without permission?”

“Yes.”

“That’s not a phone. That’s a parasite.” She pushed it across the table. “Fix it. Make it go back to how it was.”

“I can’t make it go back. But I can show you where everything moved.”

“This is a violation.”

“This is technology.”

They glared at each other for a moment. Then Mrs. E sighed dramatically. “Fine. Teach me. But I’m documenting this injustice.”

She pulled a small notebook from her purse — actually pulled it out, physical paper, like a time traveler — and clicked a pen.

Ethan blinked. “You’re taking notes?”

“I’m seventy-two. I forget things. This is called being prepared, not old.” She tapped the notebook. “Now. Where did they hide my mountain?”

For the next twenty minutes, Ethan walked her through the new layout. Where the photos app had moved. How to find messages. Why the font looked different but nothing was actually broken. Mrs. E took notes furiously, muttering under her breath about “corporate overreach” and “unsolicited home screen renovations.”

When they finished, she sat back and examined her notes with satisfaction.

“There. Now I have power again.” She looked at Ethan. “Thank you. You’re very patient with an old woman’s complaints.”

“You’re not that old.”

“I’m old enough to be your grandmother. Which reminds me…” She reached for her phone. “I have new photos to show you.”

Ethan leaned forward. He told himself it was just polite interest. He told himself he was just being friendly.

He was lying.

Mrs. E scrolled through her gallery. “This one is from Tuesday. Mia took Bagel to the park. Look at his face. He saw a squirrel and lost his entire mind.”

The photo showed Bagel mid-leap, legs splayed in four different directions, his expression pure canine insanity. Mia was just visible at the edge of the frame, laughing, her hand reaching for the leash.

Ethan smiled. “That’s amazing.”

“I know. Next one.” She swiped. “This is from Wednesday. She went to that fancy coffee shop downtown and drew little faces on her latte foam. See? That one looks like you.”

Ethan looked closer. A latte with a foam face — glasses, messy hair, slightly confused expression.

“That does not look like me.”

“It absolutely does. Denial is not just a river in Egypt.”

He laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m accurate. There’s a difference.” She swiped again. “And this one is from yesterday. She was reading in the evening light, and the sun hit her just right, and she didn’t know I was watching.”

The photo showed Mia curled in an armchair, a book in her lap, golden light falling across her face. Her expression was soft, unguarded, completely unaware of the camera. The scar along her jaw was visible but somehow didn’t matter. What mattered was the peace on her face.

Ethan stared at the photo longer than necessary.

“She’s beautiful,” he said quietly.

Mrs. E said nothing. Just watched him watch her granddaughter.

Ethan realized what he’d said and felt his face warm. “I mean—the lighting is really good. The way the sun—”

“Ethan.”

He stopped.

“You’ve been looking at my granddaughter’s photos for six weeks. You’ve asked about her favorite books, her dog’s name, where she goes for sunsets, what kind of coffee she drinks. You remember that she hates mushrooms but loves olives. You noticed she underlines books with a ruler because she likes straight lines.” Mrs. E tilted her head. “Do you want to meet her?”

Ethan’s heart did something complicated.

“I… what?”

“Do you want to meet Mia? In person? Not through photos?”

“Yes. No. I mean—” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe? This is weird. This whole situation is weird. I sit here every Saturday looking at photos of a woman I’ve never met, and her grandmother is basically my only friend here, and I don’t even know if Mia knows I exist.”

Mrs. E smiled slowly.

“Oh, she knows.”

Ethan froze. “What?”

“She knows. I may have mentioned you. Once or twice. Or every Saturday after our sessions.” Mrs. E’s smile widened. “She thinks you’re either very kind or very strange. Possibly both.”

Ethan’s brain scrambled to catch up. “You talk to her about me?”

“I talk to her about everything. She’s my granddaughter. We have dinner every Sunday. And lately, Sunday dinner includes updates about the nice young man who thinks her failed macarons are ‘real.'”

Ethan buried his face in his hands.

“Oh God.”

“She was very interested in that, by the way. The macaron comment. No one’s ever called her photos real before. Beautiful, yes. Talented, yes. But real?” Mrs. E’s voice softened. “That meant something to her.”

Ethan looked up. “It did?”

“She asked about you. What you look like. What you study. Why you spend your Saturdays teaching old ladies about phones.” Mrs. E paused. “I told her you have kind eyes and you laugh at your own jokes even when no one else does.”

“I don’t—” Ethan stopped. “Okay, I do that. But they’re funny.”

“I’m sure they are.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The community center hummed quietly around them — other volunteers teaching other seniors, the murmur of distant conversations, the occasional triumphant shout when someone successfully sent a text.

Ethan’s mind was racing.

“She knows about me,” he said slowly. “And she’s… okay with it?”

“She’s curious. Like someone else I know.” Mrs. E gave him a meaningful look. “Curiosity is where it starts, remember?”

“That’s what you said last time.”

“Because it’s true.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a small piece of paper. Slid it across the table. “Here.”

Ethan looked at it. A phone number. Written in careful, slightly shaky handwriting.

“What’s this?”

“Mia’s number. She said if you wanted to talk — really talk, not through her meddling grandmother — you could call. Or text. Young people text, right? With the thumbs and the emojis?”

Ethan stared at the paper like it might explode.

“I can’t just… call her. What would I even say?”

“‘Hello’ is traditional. ‘Hi, I’m the stranger who’s been looking at your photos for six weeks’ is also accurate.” Mrs. E stood and gathered her things. “Think about it. No pressure. But she’s waiting, Ethan. Not forever. But for now.”

She paused at the door, just like she had on that very first Saturday.

“Same time next week?”

Ethan nodded numbly. “Same time.”

She left.

Ethan sat there for a long time, staring at the piece of paper in his hand.

A phone number. Mia’s phone number. The girl behind the camera. The one who collected moments and avoided mirrors. The one with the scar and the laughing eyes and the dog named Bagel.

He could call her. He could text her. He could actually meet her.

So why did his stomach feel like it was full of terrified butterflies?

—

That night, Ethan sat on his bed, phone in hand, Mia’s number on the screen.

He’d typed and deleted seventeen messages.

Hi, this is Ethan. I’m the guy who teaches your grandma about phones. — Too formal.

Hey, your grandmother showed me your photos. They’re amazing. — Too much pressure.

Bagel is the greatest dog I’ve ever seen in photograph form. — Desperate.

He sighed and tossed the phone aside.

His roommate, Derek, looked up from his laptop. “What’s wrong with you? You’ve been making faces at your phone for an hour.”

“There’s this girl.”

“There’s always a girl.” Derek leaned back. “What’s different about this one?”

Ethan thought about it. How to explain Mia? How to explain the photos, the Saturdays, the grandmother who’d somehow become a fixture in his life?

“She sees things,” he said finally. “Ordinary things. And makes them matter.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “That’s poetic. You sure you’re not in love?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Ethan picked up his phone again. “Her grandmother gave me her number. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say hi. Ask her out. It’s not rocket science.”

“It feels like rocket science.”

Derek shrugged and went back to his laptop. “Then don’t. Keep staring at your phone like it’s a magic eight ball. See where that gets you.”

Ethan glared at him. But he also looked back at the screen.

The cursor blinked. Waiting.

He took a deep breath.

And typed:

Hi Mia. This is Ethan. The one who teaches your grandma about her phone. She showed me photos of Bagel losing his mind over a squirrel. Best thing I’ve seen all week. Hope that’s not weird to say.

He stared at it for thirty seconds.

Then he pressed send.

And immediately wanted to throw his phone out the window.

—

Twenty minutes later, just as he’d convinced himself she would never reply and he’d have to switch identities and move to another country, his phone buzzed.

Mia: Bagel says thank you. He works hard on his chaos.

Ethan laughed out loud.

Derek looked over. “Good sign?”

“Maybe.”

He typed back: Does he practice? Like, daily squirrel visualization?

Mia: Hourly. He’s very dedicated.

Ethan: I respect that kind of commitment.

Mia: My grandmother says you’re committed too. To teaching seniors. She says you have the patience of a saint.

Ethan: Your grandmother is very kind. And also terrifying.

Mia: Accurate on both counts.

Ethan smiled at the screen. The terrified butterflies in his stomach had settled into something warmer. Something like hope.

He didn’t know yet that the photos Mrs. E had shown him weren’t what they seemed. He didn’t know there was a secret hiding in that phone gallery, waiting to change everything.

But for now, he was texting a girl who made ordinary things beautiful.

And that was enough.

“Love is not something you look for. Love is something you build.”

— Barbara De Angelis

—

Chapter 4: The Truth Behind the Girl with the Laughing Eyes

Three weeks passed.

Three weeks of texting Mia at odd hours. Three weeks of learning small things — that she drank tea not coffee, that she woke up early to watch sunrises, that Bagel snored like an old man. Three weeks of Mrs. E arriving every Saturday with fresh muffins and knowing smiles.

“You’re glowing,” Mrs. E observed one morning, settling into her usual chair. “It’s disgusting. I love it.”

Ethan laughed. “I’m not glowing.”

“You absolutely are. Like a radioactive teenager. What did you two talk about this week?”

“Nothing important. Books. Photography. Whether Bagel would win in a fight against a squirrel.”

“Who would win?”

“Bagel, obviously. But the squirrel would escape at the last second and Bagel would spend the rest of the day thinking he won anyway.”

Mrs. E nodded approvingly. “You understand him. That’s important.” She pulled out her phone. “Now. Before we get to today’s lesson, I have new photos. Very important ones.”

Ethan leaned forward, as he always did.

But something felt different this time.

Mrs. E scrolled slowly, narrating each image. Mia at a farmer’s market, holding sunflowers. Mia on a rooftop at sunset. Mia with a tray of lumpy, clearly failed macarons, laughing at herself.

Ethan frowned.

“Wait,” he said. “These look familiar.”

“They should. I’ve shown you thousands of photos.”

“No, but these specific ones…” He pointed at the screen. “The farmer’s market. The sunflowers. I’ve seen that exact photo before. Early on. Maybe the first or second Saturday.”

Mrs. E’s expression didn’t change. “You have a good memory.”

“And the macarons. That was the very first photo you showed me. The failed macarons. You said they were from that week.”

“They were.”

“But this says…” Ethan squinted at the corner of the image. A tiny date stamp, barely visible. His heart stumbled. “This says July 2012.”

Silence.

Ethan looked at Mrs. E. The old woman’s face was perfectly calm. Too calm.

“Mrs. E? These photos are old. Really old.”

“Yes.”

“Then why did you tell me they were new? Why did you say Mia sent them recently?”

Mrs. E folded her hands on the table. She didn’t look away. Didn’t panic. Didn’t make excuses.

“Because I needed you to see something before you knew the truth.”

Ethan’s brain scrambled to understand. “I don’t… what truth?”

“The girl in those photos — the farmer’s market, the sunflowers, the macarons — that’s not Mia.”

The words landed like stones.

Ethan stared at her. “What?”

“That’s her mother. My daughter. Sarah.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly. Ethan gripped the edge of the table.

“Sarah? But you said Sarah passed away. Years ago.”

“Seven years ago. In 2013.”

“Then these photos…” He looked back at the screen. The laughing girl. The sunflowers. The macarons. “These are from before she died.”

“Yes.”

Ethan’s mind raced, trying to piece it together. “But you told me they were Mia’s. You said your granddaughter sent them. Every Saturday for months, you showed me these and said they were Mia.”

“I know.”

“Why?”

Mrs. E leaned forward, her eyes sharp and clear. “Because I needed you to fall in love with the way my family sees the world before you met the reality of our grief.”

Ethan just stared at her.

“Mia sees exactly the way Sarah did,” Mrs. E continued. “The same eye for light. The same love for ordinary things. The same ability to make a coffee cup feel like a portrait. But Mia stopped photographing herself after the accident. She stopped letting herself be seen. She hides behind the camera now, and she thinks no one will ever look at her the way they looked at her mother.”

She paused, letting the words settle.

“But you, Ethan. You looked at Sarah’s photos — at her macarons, her sunsets, her silly coffee cups — and you called them real. You didn’t know they were Sarah’s. You thought they were Mia’s. And you loved them anyway.”

Ethan opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“That’s… that’s insane.”

“Yes.”

“That’s manipulation.”

“Yes.”

“That’s…” He stopped. Ran his hands through his hair. Let out a breath that was half laugh, half disbelief. “That’s the most dedicated grandmother move I’ve ever seen.”

Mrs. E’s lips twitched.

“You’re not angry?”

Ethan thought about it. Really thought.

He should be angry. He’d been lied to for months. Played. Used. Every photo, every story, every Saturday — all part of some elaborate test he never agreed to take.

But then he thought about Mia. About their texts. About the way she described sunrises and the way Bagel snored and the way she underlined books with a ruler because she liked straight lines.

He thought about the scar on her jaw. The way she hid behind her camera. The way she’d stopped photographing herself entirely.

“She doesn’t know, does she?” Ethan asked quietly. “Mia. She doesn’t know you’ve been doing this.”

Mrs. E shook her head. “No. She knows I show you photos. She knows I talk about you. She doesn’t know the photos are Sarah’s. She’d be furious if she did.”

“Furious doesn’t even cover it.”

“No. It doesn’t.” Mrs. E’s voice softened. “But I didn’t do this to hurt her. I did this because she deserves to be seen. Really seen. Not as Sarah’s daughter. Not as the girl with the scar. But as herself. And you, Ethan… you have a gift for seeing.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say.

He thought about the last few months. The Saturdays he’d started counting down to. The photos he’d studied like they were treasure maps. The girl he’d fallen for without ever meeting.

Had he fallen for Mia? Or had he fallen for a ghost?

“I need to think,” he said finally.

Mrs. E nodded slowly. “I understand.”

“I need to… I don’t know what I need.”

“Take time. Think. Be angry if you need to be.” She stood, gathering her things. “But Ethan? The girl you’ve been texting — the one who told you about Bagel’s snoring and her sunrise obsession and her hatred of mushrooms — that’s Mia. Not Sarah. Mia. The photos may have been a test, but what you built from them is real.”

She paused at the door.

“Same time next Saturday?”

Ethan looked at her for a long moment.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

Mrs. E nodded once. Then she was gone.

—

Ethan sat alone in the empty community center for a long time.

He pulled out his phone. Scrolled through his texts with Mia. The last one was from that morning — a photo of Bagel wearing a tiny hat, captioned: He tolerates my nonsense. True love.

He’d laughed when he saw it. He’d typed back: That’s not a dog, that’s a saint.

Normal. Easy. Real.

But was it real?

Everything he knew about Mia — her love of sunsets, her photography, her way of seeing beauty in small things — came from photos that weren’t even hers. They were her mother’s. He’d been admiring Sarah’s eye, Sarah’s talent, Sarah’s way of moving through the world.

Did Mia even have her own way of seeing? Or was she just living in her mother’s shadow, using someone else’s eyes?

He didn’t know.

And that was the problem.

—

That evening, his phone buzzed.

Mia: My grandmother said she told you something today. Are you okay?

Ethan stared at the message. How much did Mia know? Had Mrs. E warned her? Was she in on this too?

He typed: Did you know?

Mia: Know what?

Ethan: The photos. The ones your grandmother showed me for months. They weren’t yours. They were your mother’s.

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Then nothing for a long time.

Ethan waited.

Finally: I didn’t know. I swear. She told me she was showing you MY photos. Recent ones. I thought you were looking at ME.

Ethan: I was. I thought I was.

Mia: And now?

Ethan didn’t know how to answer.

He thought about the girl in the texts. The one with the dog in a hat. The one who watched sunrises alone. The one who underlined books with rulers.

Was that girl real? Or had he imagined her?

He typed: I don’t know what I’m looking at anymore.

The dots appeared again. Then stopped. Then appeared once more.

Mia: Then maybe you should look at me. Not a photo. Not a test. Just me.

Ethan: And if I don’t like what I see?

Mia: Then at least you’ll know. Instead of wondering.

He stared at the message for a long time.

Then he typed: Saturday. After my session with your grandmother. There’s a coffee shop around the corner.

Mia: I know the one.

Ethan: 3pm?

Mia: I’ll be there.

He put down the phone and stared at the ceiling.

Three days until Saturday.

Three days until he found out if the girl he’d been falling for actually existed.

—

Chapter 5: A Slow Burn Meeting That Changed Everything

Saturday arrived like a held breath.

Ethan woke up at 6am, heart already racing. He stared at the ceiling for twenty minutes, replaying every conversation, every photo, every moment of the last few months. Then he got up, showered, changed clothes three times, and finally settled on his old university hoodie — the same one he’d worn that very first Saturday.

It felt like coming full circle.

The community center session with Mrs. E was quiet. Awkward. Neither of them mentioned the elephant in the room.

Mrs. E asked about cloud storage. Ethan showed her. She asked about backing up photos. He explained. She took notes like always. He helped like always.

But something was different.

The ease between them — the jokes, the warmth, the comfortable rhythm — had been replaced by something careful. Something cautious.

At the end of the session, Mrs. E packed her bag slowly. She paused at the door, just like she always did.

“Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“She’s scared too, you know. More than you.” She looked at him with those sharp old eyes. “You’re not the only one taking a risk today.”

Then she left.

Ethan sat for a moment, letting her words settle. Then he grabbed his jacket and walked to the coffee shop around the corner.

—

The coffee shop was small and warm, smelling of cinnamon and roasted beans. Soft music played from hidden speakers. A few people sat at tables with laptops and books.

Ethan spotted her immediately.

She sat at a corner table by the window, half-hidden behind a tall coffee cup. Her dark hair was pulled back. Her hands wrapped around the mug like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. And on the floor beside her, wearing a tiny sweater, sat Bagel.

Ethan’s heart did something complicated.

He walked over. She looked up.

And for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Mia was beautiful. Not in the polished way of the photos — Sarah’s photos, he corrected himself — but in a real way. Her eyes were dark and intelligent, watching him carefully. The scar along her jaw was more visible in person, a faint jagged line that caught the light. She wasn’t smiling. But she wasn’t running either.

“You brought Bagel,” Ethan said finally.

It was stupid. It was the only thing he could think of.

Mia’s lips twitched. “He insisted. Emotional support dog.”

“For you or for me?”

“That’s undecided.”

Ethan sat down across from her. Bagel immediately put his head on Ethan’s knee and looked up with soulful eyes.

“He’s greeting you,” Mia said. “It means he’s decided you’re acceptable.”

“High praise?”

“The highest. He usually hates everyone.”

Ethan looked down at the small dog, then back at Mia. “Your grandmother said he was the ugliest puppy at the shelter.”

“He was. That’s why I chose him.” Mia’s voice was quiet but steady. “Everyone walked past him because he wasn’t cute enough. Seemed unfair.”

Something in Ethan’s chest tightened.

They sat in silence for a moment. A waiter appeared; Ethan ordered coffee. Mia watched him the whole time, like she was studying a photograph.

“You’re not what I expected,” she said finally.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Someone taller, maybe. Or more confident. You look…” She tilted her head. “Nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

“Good. Me too.”

Ethan let out a small laugh. “You hide it better.”

“Years of practice.” She traced the rim of her cup with one finger. “My grandmother says you’re angry at her.”

“I was. Maybe I still am. I don’t know.”

“She was wrong to lie to you.”

“Yes.”

“But she was also right about you.”

Ethan looked up. “What do you mean?”

Mia was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was softer.

“She told me about the macarons. The first day. You said they were your favorite because they felt real.” Mia’s eyes met his. “No one’s ever called anything I do real before. Beautiful, yes. Talented, sure. But real? That’s different.”

“They were your mother’s photos,” Ethan said quietly. “Not yours.”

“I know. But you didn’t know that when you said it. You just… saw something. Felt something. That wasn’t about the photos being Sarah’s. That was about you.” She paused. “And I’ve been thinking about it ever since she told me.”

Ethan didn’t know what to say.

Bagel shifted on his feet, demanding attention. Ethan absently scratched his ears.

“Why do you hide?” he asked suddenly.

Mia blinked. “What?”

“Your grandmother said you stopped photographing yourself after the accident. You hide behind the camera now. Why?”

Mia’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he thought she might walk out. Might shut down. Might end this before it really began.

But she didn’t.

She reached up and touched her scar, almost unconsciously.

“Because before the accident, I looked like her. My mother. Everyone said so. Same eyes. Same smile. Same everything.” Her voice was steady, but he could hear the effort behind it. “After the accident, I didn’t anymore. The glass changed things. The doctors fixed what they could, but I don’t look like her now. I look like… this.”

Ethan waited.

“And I thought,” Mia continued, “if I don’t look like her anymore, then what’s the point? Of being seen, I mean. She was the beautiful one. The talented one. The one who saw things differently. I was just… her daughter. Living in her shadow. Taking photos that would never be as good as hers.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t know that. You’ve never seen my photos.”

“I’ve seen the way you text. The way you describe things. Sunrises. Bagel’s snoring. The way light hits things at certain times of day.” Ethan leaned forward. “That’s not your mother’s voice. That’s yours. And it’s beautiful.”

Mia stared at him.

For a long, terrifying moment, he thought he’d said the wrong thing.

Then her eyes glistened.

“You don’t even know me,” she whispered.

“I know. But I’d like to.”

Bagel chose that moment to sneeze violently on Ethan’s shoe.

They both looked down. Then at each other. And then, somehow, they were both laughing.

It wasn’t a perfect moment. It was awkward and messy and Bagel was now wiping his nose on Ethan’s jeans. But it was real. Completely, utterly real.

“That dog has no manners,” Mia said, wiping her eyes.

“He’s perfect,” Ethan replied. “Don’t ever change him.”

They smiled at each other. The tension from earlier had softened into something warmer. Something that felt like possibility.

—

Two hours later, they were still talking.

Ethan learned that Mia taught photography part-time at a community college. That she was saving to buy a better lens. That she’d had the same camera for eight years because it had been her mother’s and she couldn’t bear to replace it.

Mia learned that Ethan was studying social work, not tech. That he’d started volunteering because his professor suggested it, but kept coming because of people like Mrs. E. That his parents lived three hours away and called every Sunday without fail.

They talked about books. Movies. The best time of day to watch the sky.

They talked about everything except the elephant in the room.

Until Mia finally brought it up.

“So where do we go from here?” she asked quietly. “Now that you know the truth?”

Ethan thought about it. Really thought.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I feel like I’ve been lied to for months. But I also feel like… the person I’ve been texting? That’s you. Not your mother. Not some trick. Just you.”

“Yes.”

“And I like that person. A lot.”

Mia’s breath caught slightly.

“But I need time,” Ethan continued. “To process all of this. To separate what was real from what wasn’t.”

“How much time?”

“I don’t know that either.” He met her eyes. “But I’m not walking away, Mia. If that’s what you’re afraid of.”

She was quiet for a long moment. Then she nodded slowly.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, you can have time. But…” She hesitated. “Can we still text? Not about anything serious. Just… Bagel updates. Sunrise photos. Stupid stuff.”

Ethan smiled. “I’d like that.”

Bagel, as if sensing the moment, chose that exact second to climb onto Ethan’s lap and fall asleep.

Mia laughed. “He’s claimed you. You’re his now.”

“I accept my fate.”

They sat there for a while longer, the afternoon light shifting around them. When they finally stood to leave, Mia paused at the door.

“Ethan?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you. For coming. For…” She gestured vaguely. “All of it.”

He smiled. “Thank your grandmother. She’s the one who set this up. Even if her methods were insane.”

Mia snorted. “She’s going to be insufferable about this.”

“Probably.”

“I’ll text you later. Bagel will dictate.”

“I look forward to it.”

They walked out into the cold afternoon air. Mia went left, toward the bus stop. Ethan went right, toward his apartment.

Halfway down the block, his phone buzzed.

Mia: Bagel says you pass the test.

Ethan laughed out loud.

He typed back: Tell Bagel I’m honored. And also, your grandmother is never going to let us forget this.

Mia: She’s already planning the wedding. I can feel it.

Ethan: Tell her to slow down. Some of us are still processing.

Mia: You know she doesn’t believe in slow.

Ethan: I’m starting to notice that.

He pocketed his phone and kept walking.

The sun was setting. The sky was doing that thing Mia had texted him about once — turning pink and orange like a watercolor painting. He stopped for a moment to watch it.

He thought about Sarah, the woman he’d never meet, whose photos had started all of this. He thought about Mrs. E, the master manipulator with a heart of gold. He thought about Mia, standing in a coffee shop with her ugly dog and her beautiful, wounded eyes.

It was messy. Complicated. Nothing like the simple love story he might have imagined.

But it was real.

And for now, that was enough.

—

Chapter 6: Learning to Be Seen Again — and Starting a New Folder Together

Three months passed.

Three months of slow Saturdays and faster texts. Three months of learning each other without filters or grandmothers or ghost photos between them. Three months of Mia slowly, carefully, terrifyingly learning to be seen again.

It started small.

A photo of Bagel wearing the tiny hat. Sent by Mia, taken by Mia. Not her mother’s camera. Hers.

See? her text read. I can do stupid too.

Ethan saved it immediately.

—

The first time Mia let him take her picture, it was an accident.

They were at the park. Bagel was chasing squirrels with his usual lack of success. The afternoon light was golden, the kind photographers wrote poems about. Ethan pulled out his phone without thinking and aimed it at Mia.

She froze.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t…” She stopped. Touched her jaw. Looked away.

Ethan lowered the phone. “Okay.”

But he didn’t put it away. He just waited.

Mia stood there for a long moment, Bagel oblivious in the background. Then, slowly, she turned back toward him.

“You really want a photo of me?”

“I really want a photo of you.”

“Why?”

Ethan thought about it. “Because this light is beautiful. Because Bagel is being ridiculous. Because you’re here, in it, and someday I’ll want to remember this exact moment.” He paused. “Also because you have flour on your nose from baking and it’s cute.”

Mia’s hand flew to her nose. She’d been trying to make macarons again. They’d come out like little rocks, just like her mother’s. She’d been laughing about it when they left her apartment.

“You’re ridiculous,” she said.

“Probably. Can I take the photo now?”

She hesitated. Then, barely, she nodded.

Ethan raised the phone. Mia didn’t smile for the camera. She smiled at Bagel, who had just failed spectacularly at catching a leaf. It was natural. Unguarded. Real.

Click.

She looked at him afterward, eyes searching. “Can I see?”

He showed her.

Mia stared at the image for a long time. Her scar was visible. Her nose had flour. She wasn’t posing or pretending.

She looked like herself.

“I don’t hate it,” she said quietly.

“That’s a good start.”

—

The first time Mia photographed herself, it was deliberate.

She texted Ethan late one night: I did something. Don’t laugh.

Then a photo arrived.

It was a self-portrait. The first one she’d taken in years. Black and white, moody lighting, half her face in shadow. The scar was visible but not highlighted. Her eyes were the focus — dark, intelligent, watching the viewer with something between challenge and hope.

Ethan stared at it for a long time.

Then he called her.

She picked up on the first ring. “It’s stupid, isn’t it?”

“It’s not stupid.”

“It’s been eight years, Ethan. Eight years since I pointed a camera at myself. And now I send you this in the middle of the night like some kind of—”

“Mia.”

She stopped.

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful. Not in spite of the scar. All of it. Together. That’s who you are.”

Silence on the other end.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she finally whispered. “Be seen, I mean. I don’t know how.”

“Me neither. But we can figure it out together.”

Another long pause.

“Together?”

“Unless that’s too fast.”

Mia laughed. It was wet, like she’d been crying. “You think this is fast? My grandmother was engaged after three weeks.”

“We’re not your grandmother.”

“Thank God.”

They talked for another hour. About nothing. About everything. About the photo and what it meant and how terrified she’d been to send it.

When they finally hung up, Ethan looked at the photo again.

He saved it to a new folder on his phone. Not labeled “Mia” or “Sarah’s daughter” or “girl with the scar.”

Just her name.

Mia.

—

The first time Mia said “I love you,” it came out wrong.

They were at her apartment. Bagel was asleep on Ethan’s lap, as usual. Mia was showing him photos on her laptop — real photos, hers this time, taken over the last few months.

There was one of Ethan teaching Mrs. E, both of them laughing at something on her phone. One of Bagel mid-sneeze. One of a sunrise over the city, the light hitting buildings just right.

And then one of Ethan, asleep on her couch, looking young and peaceful and completely unguarded.

“When did you take this?”

“Last week. You passed out during that awful movie. I couldn’t resist.”

Ethan studied the photo. “I look terrible.”

“You look like you trust me.” Mia’s voice was soft. “That’s my favorite thing.”

Ethan looked at her. Really looked.

“I love you,” he said.

Mia blinked. “What?”

“I love you. Not your mother’s photos. Not some idea of you. You. The one who photographs sleeping boys and ugly dogs and failed macarons. The one who’s terrified of being seen but lets me look anyway.”

Mia’s eyes glistened.

“You can’t just say that while I’m holding a laptop.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t…” She set the laptop aside carefully. “I can’t properly respond when I’m holding technology.”

“Then respond now.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Bagel snored softly between them.

“I love you too,” she said. “Even though you’re ridiculous. Even though my grandmother manipulated you into my life. Even though I’m still figuring out how to be seen.” She touched her scar, then dropped her hand. “Especially because of that, maybe.”

Ethan leaned forward and kissed her.

It was soft. Quiet. Nothing like the movies.

It was better.

—

Saturday mornings continued, but they’d evolved.

Now Ethan taught Mrs. E with Mia beside him, Bagel curled under the table. Now the lessons were group affairs, Mia chiming in with her own tech wisdom, Mrs. E pretending to be annoyed by the help but clearly loving every second.

“You’re both ganging up on me,” Mrs. E announced one morning. “It’s conspiracy. Elder abuse.”

“It’s called teamwork,” Mia said.

“It’s called betrayal.” But Mrs. E was smiling.

After the lesson, Mia pulled out her camera — the heavy mechanical one that had been her mother’s. She aimed it at Mrs. E, who was mid-argument with another senior about whether the cloud was actually safe.

“Mum’s the word,” Mrs. E was saying. “If it’s a cloud, it’s in the sky. If it’s in the sky, anyone can see it. Explain that, technology boy.”

Ethan opened his mouth to explain cloud storage for the hundredth time.

Click.

Mia lowered the camera, smiling.

“What?” Mrs. E demanded.

“Nothing. Just documenting.”

“Documenting what?”

Mia looked at Ethan. He nodded slightly.

“Documenting my grandmother being herself,” Mia said. “It’s my new favorite hobby.”

Mrs. E sniffed. “Well. As long as you’re not photographing that scar. Waste of good film.”

Mia’s hand drifted to her jaw automatically. Then stopped.

“Actually,” she said quietly, “I’ve been photographing that too.”

Mrs. E went still.

“You have?”

Mia pulled up a photo on her camera screen. A self-portrait, close up, the scar front and center. But her eyes were steady. Strong.

“It’s part of me,” Mia said. “Took me a long time to accept that.”

Mrs. E looked at the image. Then at her granddaughter. Then at Ethan.

“You did this,” she said to him.

“No.” Mia shook her head. “He just… held the door open. I walked through myself.”

Mrs. E’s eyes glistened. She blinked rapidly, then stood abruptly.

“I need tea. Very strong tea. With something in it.”

She walked away quickly.

Mia watched her go. “She’s crying.”

“I know.”

“She never cries.”

“I know.”

Mia leaned her head against Ethan’s shoulder. Bagel immediately inserted himself between them, demanding attention.

“This is chaos,” Mia said.

“This is family,” Ethan replied.

—

That evening, they sat on Mia’s rooftop — the same one from Sarah’s photos, the one with the sunset views. Mia had her camera. Ethan had takeout containers.

The sky was doing that thing again. Pink and orange and gold.

Mia raised her camera. Clicked.

Then she turned it toward Ethan.

“What are you doing?”

“Documenting.”

“I’m eating fried rice. Terribly unphotogenic.”

“That’s the point.” She smiled. “Real life. Ordinary moments. Collecting them.”

Ethan froze mid-bite. “That’s what your mother used to say.”

“I know.” Mia lowered the camera. “I used to think I could never be as good as her. At seeing things, I mean. At making them matter.” She looked at the sunset. “But I’m not trying to be her anymore. I’m just trying to be me. And me loves photographing you eating fried rice like a gremlin.”

Ethan laughed. “Romantic.”

“You’re welcome.”

He looked at her — really looked. The scar. The steady eyes. The camera held like an old friend.

“I’m glad I failed those macarons,” he said.

“What?”

“Your grandmother’s test. The macarons. If I’d said something polite instead of honest, none of this would have happened.”

Mai considered this. “So my grandmother’s insane manipulation worked because you’re weird about failed desserts.”

“Basically.”

“Romantic.”

“Extremely.”

She leaned over and kissed him. The sunset did its thing behind them. Bagel snored on the rooftop below.

Perfectly ordinary. Perfectly real.

—

The following Saturday, Mrs. E arrived with a mission.

“Today,” she announced, “you’re both teaching me something new.”

Ethan and Mia exchanged glances.

“Okay,” Ethan said carefully. “What do you want to learn?”

Mrs. E pulled out her phone. “I want to make a new album. A real one. Not the cloud nonsense.”

“You already know how to make albums.”

“This one is different.” She tapped the screen, then turned it toward them.

The album was already started. She’d labeled it:

Volume 2

Inside were photos. Recent ones. Mia at the park with Bagel. Ethan and Mia cooking dinner, both covered in flour. The three of them at the community center, laughing at something. Mia’s self-portrait, the one with the scar front and center.

“When did you get these?” Mia asked.

“I’ve been saving them. From your texts. From my own phone. From life.” Mrs. E looked at them both. “The first volume was Sarah’s. I’ll always keep it. But it’s time for a new one.”

Ethan felt something warm spread through his chest.

“Volume 2,” he said softly.

“The archives are full, kids.” Mrs. E smiled. “Time to start a new folder.”

Mia looked at Ethan. Her eyes were bright.

He reached for her hand. She took it.

Bagel, as if sensing the moment, chose that exact second to jump onto Mrs. E’s lap and demand attention.

“Ugly dog,” Mrs. E muttered, scratching his ears. “Love of my life.”

Mia laughed. Ethan joined in. The community center hummed around them, full of seniors and volunteers and Saturday morning chaos.

And somewhere, in a phone and a cloud and a grandmother’s careful archive, a new folder opened.

Volume 2.

The beginning of everything.

❤️ “Some loves arrive quietly, stay gently, and become home without ever asking for permission.”

—-

Tale Basket

Slow Burn-Authentic Vs Synthetic Love

Every Saturday – A Warm Romance That Plays It Too Safe

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