Tell Me Lies (COMPLETED)

Out of Focus

I stepped into the studio, shaking off the weight of the hectic morning. "Traffic was brutal. Sorry for the delay," I said, offering a quick, casual apology to the crew. My mind was already shifting gears, processing the next few hours ahead of me. I was used to this—long shoots, endless details, and constantly moving between chaos and control. But today, the weight on my shoulders felt a little heavier than usual.

I was the producer, the one who had to keep everything running smoothly. But as I scanned the room, mentally organizing the chaos around me, my eyes landed on her.

Zaire.

My breath caught in my throat.

She was standing across the room, adjusting her camera, completely absorbed in what she was doing. I froze for a moment, caught in the strange, inexplicable pull of her presence. It was like no time had passed at all, like the last few months hadn't happened.

But they had.

I could see her—just as beautiful, just as focused as I remembered. The click of her camera echoed through the room, a constant reminder that she was still the Zaire I'd known.

I didn't know how long I stood there, watching her from a distance. She was so immersed in her work, effortlessly capturing each shot. Her movements were fluid, graceful, like she was part of the scene, part of the art she was creating. I couldn't tear my eyes away.

A model laughed nearby, breaking my trance. I glanced around, quickly checking that everything was in order. I had a job to do—this wasn't about me. But no matter how many times I told myself that, my focus kept drifting back to her.

I felt something stir deep inside, a familiar ache that I'd been trying to ignore. The memory of the last time we saw each other—the confrontation with Aiyana, the silence that followed, the unresolved tension hanging between us—it all came rushing back.

I didn't reach out. There had been so many chances, so many moments where I could've tried, but I didn't. I let things slip away. Now, standing here, just a few feet from her, I realized how much I regretted it. How much I missed her.

My fingers twitched, almost reaching for my phone to check if she had left a message, anything that might give me some sign of where we stood. But before I could, she glanced up, her gaze meeting mine for the briefest moment.

And then, without warning, she turned away, fully immersing herself back into her work.

The moment passed.

But I didn't move. I stayed rooted in place, watching her again. Her movements. Her focus. The way she seemed oblivious to everything around her, lost in the rhythm of her craft.

I think I must of told her we need to talk I don't remember. The only think stuck on my mind was the Bare Vanilla she sprayed on herself.

I could feel the walls I had built around myself crumbling. There was no going back now. I couldn't avoid this.

The shoot would continue, the minutes would tick by, but I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted to speak to her. To finally say something—anything—to bridge the distance that had grown between us.

But for now, I stayed in the background, trying to find the right moment. Trying to figure out what I was going to do with this knot in my chest.

The shoot goes on. The models change, the music shifts, the crew moves like clockwork, but I stay rooted, my attention fixed on her. I try to focus on the task at hand—directing the shoot, ensuring the lighting is perfect, talking with the artists and musicians—but it's hard when she's in the room.

She's still the same Zaire. The same confidence, the same energy that I once thought I understood so well. But now, I realize how little I truly knew her. She's changed, I can see it. There's a distance in her eyes, a coolness that wasn't there before. It stings more than I expected.

I can't shake the feeling that she's not just physically distant, but emotionally closed off as well. She doesn't acknowledge me again. Not a word. Not a glance. And I can't tell if it's because she's still angry, or if she's simply moved on.

I glance over at the other side of the room, where the shoot is progressing. But the whole time, my gaze drifts back to her—each shot she takes, each adjustment of her lens, each brief, silent moment between us. It's like I'm watching someone I used to know, but with no right to be a part of their life anymore.

The models, the artists, they come and go, but Zaire stays in my line of sight, oblivious to my presence. The crew moves around her, offering suggestions, adjusting lighting, but she's always in control. Always the artist. She doesn't seem to notice me watching her, even though I'm not trying to hide it.

But what can I say? What should I say?

It's been months since everything fell apart. I'm still not sure what went wrong, or if it even mattered to her. All I know is, when I saw her again, something inside me broke. The walls I had built to protect myself from this—this ache, this regret—crumbled.

I take a deep breath and look at her one last time. She's adjusting the focus on her camera, her lips pressed into a slight frown of concentration. It's like she's a world unto herself, and I'm just an outsider looking in.

And for a moment, I wonder if this is how it's supposed to be. If this is the consequence of my inaction.

I've avoided confronting the reality of what happened, avoided dealing with the things I should've said, the things I should've done. And now, all I have are these fleeting moments, where I watch her through a lens of regret.

The models are finished with their set, and the next group steps in. But my mind is still on Zaire. Her presence is like a constant pull I can't ignore, no matter how much I try to focus on the task at hand.

She packs up her gear as the shoot starts winding down. I see the way she moves, the way she carries herself—it's as though she's trying to remain untouched by the rest of the world. And I get it now. I understand why she's closed off.

It's me. I'm the reason she's like this.

I walk closer to her, my heart hammering in my chest. This is it. The moment I've been waiting for. I'm going to say something. I have to.

But as I approach, she looks up and meets my eyes. And in that instant, the world goes still. She doesn't flinch, doesn't react. She just looks at me, as though she's waiting. Waiting for something.

I open my mouth to speak, but before I can form a word, she's already turning away. The door to the studio opens with a soft creak as she strides out. My body moves instinctively, but I freeze before I reach the door. She's gone.

I stand there, staring at the space she once occupied, feeling the weight of everything unspoken between us.

What just happened?

I stay in the studio for a moment longer, my mind racing. I don't know what I expected from this moment, but I didn't expect this—her running, her avoiding me like the past few months hadn't happened. I should have known. I should have expected it.

But it doesn't make it hurt any less.

With a heavy sigh, I turn and head back to the center of the room, trying to focus on the task at hand. But everything feels wrong. I can't shake the image of her walking away from me, disappearing into the hallway.

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a/n

I'm so used to writing from Zaire pov I actually didn't even know what I was writing but I hope it's decent.

Love u

A