Beneath the polaroid [BXB]

BENEATH THE POLAROID - 15 | A piece of William Carlisle, captured forever

THE NIGHT CREPT IN with a soft whisper, and James could feel its chill on his skin as he stood in front of the mirror, fixing his shirt collar for what seemed like the hundredth time. The soft yellow glow of his bedside lamp painted his reflection in a muted gold, casting deep shadows over his features. He wasn't used to this—the anticipation that crawled under his skin, the thrum of excitement hidden beneath his usual nervousness. He had lied, of course. The words about Sandra had slipped from his lips with an ease that surprised even him. It had been for his mother's sake—her eyes lighting up, her smile stretching wide when he mentioned a girl. She hadn't hesitated to let him go after that, even teasing him with a grin so mischievous he had to play along, turning his face red and stumbling over his words.

Now, in his room, with his reflection staring back at him, James felt a knot twisting in his chest. It wasn't Sandra he wanted to see tonight. It was him—William Carlisle.

Elmwood Heights didn't exactly buzz with excitement, but the party tonight felt different, like something electric had settled over the town. The streets outside were quiet as James drove to the party, his Polaroid tucked into the passenger seat beside him, ready. The houses passed by in a blur, their dimly lit porches and carefully trimmed lawns slowly giving way to a large home at the edge of town—the site of tonight's party. The house loomed, large and extravagant, with its tall windows flickering from the glow of lanterns and the muffled hum of music spilling out from inside. It wasn't the usual Elmwood Heights affair.

James parked his car on the street, nerves dancing in his stomach as he approached the house. A few clusters of kids were already scattered on the lawn, laughing and talking under the dim light. The heavy swing of jazz music poured out of the open windows, lively and intoxicating. James felt out of place immediately, his shoes sinking slightly into the grass as he made his way to the front door.

Inside, the air was thick—warm with the heat of too many bodies packed into one space, the scent of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke blending into a strange mix. The house itself was lavishly decorated, with grand paintings on the walls and old-fashioned furniture that screamed wealth. The partygoers seemed to float through it, laughing and sipping from glasses filled with amber liquid. Everything felt out of focus, like a fever dream, and James had to remind himself to breathe.

He moved through the crowd, scanning the faces, his heart pounding a little harder every time he thought he saw a flash of blonde hair. There was a warmth to the atmosphere that pulled him in, but also something unsettling, like he didn't quite belong here. The laughter around him felt too loud, the music too fast, and he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

Eventually, he found a quieter corner near the grand staircase, his back pressed against the wall as he looked around. Sandra was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't matter anymore. His eyes searched for only one person, and when he saw him, it was like time slowed down.

William Carlisle stood near the bar, a drink in hand, his tall frame relaxed as he leaned against the counter. His dirty blonde hair, tousled like he had just rolled out of bed, caught the light, making him look ethereal in the dim glow. The heterochromatic eyes flashed as he laughed at something one of his friends said, the sound deep and smooth, cutting through the haze of jazz music. He looked... perfect.

James felt his pulse quicken, his breath catching in his throat. He reached for his Polaroid instinctively, fingers brushing over the cold metal like it was an extension of himself. Without thinking, he snapped the first picture.

The flash of light was subtle, drowned out by the flickering lanterns overhead, but James stayed cautious, hiding the camera against his chest, his gaze darting around to see if anyone had noticed. William, lost in conversation with his friends, hadn't. Relief flooded James, and he allowed himself another glance at the boy, capturing every detail in his mind. The way William moved, the way he smiled at the world like he had it wrapped around his finger, how his hand gripped the glass, strong and sure.

Click. Another picture.

James couldn't stop. There was something magnetic about William tonight, something that made him irresistible, like a work of art that demanded to be admired. James took picture after picture, his camera capturing William's every angle—the curve of his jaw, the way his lips parted as he spoke, the way his eyes would momentarily flicker with something deeper when his friends weren't looking.

There was a brief moment—just a flicker—when William's eyes scanned the room, and for a heart-stopping second, they landed on James. Silver and green locked onto him, and James felt the world fall away. His breath hitched, his hands trembling slightly as he held the camera close. William's expression was unreadable, the moment stretching out like a thin thread ready to snap. James' heart raced in his chest, the heat of the room suddenly unbearable as William's gaze held him in place.

But then, as quickly as it had happened, William turned away, his attention pulled back to his friends, and the spell was broken. James exhaled, feeling the rush of blood in his veins, his obsession deepening with every passing second. He knew this feeling—it had been there since the moment he first laid eyes on William. But now, it was stronger, darker, and James wasn't sure if he could control it.

The night dragged on, the music growing louder, the crowd rowdier. But James stayed in his corner, watching William with an intensity that bordered on worship. Each click of his camera felt like a secret, a stolen piece of the boy he couldn't have. He barely noticed the people around him, the laughing couples, the smell of alcohol thick in the air. All that mattered was William.

As the party began to wind down, James realized it was time to leave. He slipped through the crowd unnoticed, his camera tucked safely under his jacket. His heart was still pounding, the weight of the night settling over him like a heavy blanket. Outside, the cool night air hit him like a slap, clearing his mind just enough to remind him where he was.

James walked quickly to his car, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure no one had seen him. The house behind him was still alive with the sound of music and laughter, but James couldn't wait to leave. He needed to get home, to process everything that had happened tonight.

He climbed into his car, the leather seat cold against his back, and started the engine. As he drove away, the night felt darker, heavier, like something had shifted. But James didn't care. All that mattered was that he had the pictures. A piece of William Carlisle, captured forever.