POLAROID - A Seth Donchess Fan-Fiction

PART I: The Beginning

It was autumn. The city had been dressed for Halloween for weeks, in a smock of brown, and gold, and red: Her hair all grey clouds and late-morning sunlight. It was my favourite time of year. The summer season had passed in a flurry of weddings, and I counted myself lucky to be entering the quieter lull of October with enough in my pocket. Wedding photography was not fashion photography, but every happy moment of matrimony captured was fuel for my portfolio: A step in the right direction. As I walked the length of Market St, a lukewarm latte held between my hands, and the cold against my cheeks, I wasn't about to forget the fortunate position I was in.

It really was one of those days. The crowded sidewalks seemed to part just for me, my Spotify shuffle was absolutely unfaultable, and no matter how dark the clouds seemed to get... it just did not want to rain. It was an oddity, to be feeling so high. And isn't it for everyone? We spend so much of our time worrying and putting ourselves down that we forget that sometimes—

"Oh, fuck! I am so sorry!" My thoughts were scattered as I rounded the corner, with a little too much bravado in my step, right in to Seth's chest. And just like that, two unstoppable forces, both riding their internal monologues and vibing to their Spotify playlists, collided. It's a painfully cliché beginning, but it's what happened, and I wouldn't have had it any other way.

I scrambled back from him, trying to preserve what of my coffee hadn't gone down his — blouse? Oh. The victim of my confident mood was wearing a blouse. I looked up from his chest with a bewildered little smile, apologetic and amused all-in-one, but something about this man had caught me off guard.

"No, no, my apologies." He insisted, laughing easily and glancing down himself. "I should have been looking where I was going." He fixed his attention on me as though we were old friends, and smiled with a softness I'd never seen before. With the haze of initial panic subsiding, it was only then that I actually saw him. Coffee stained blouse, and all.

He was beautiful. He had tousled hair and a glittering smile, with kind eyes that were clear as glass, and cheekbones as sharp. I had rounded the corner and thumped in to some ethereal being, clearly. What were the chances?

I swallowed the shock, not quite done being embarrassed just yet. "No, really. That was absolutely my bad." I reached for my phone, fumbling in my pocket for it, and then fumbling again to unlock the keypad and hand it towards him. "Please, let me know how much the dry cleaning costs, at least."

It was an optimistic thought, I wasn't sure those coffee stains were ever going to come out. I urged the phone towards him all the same, canting my head the way that puppies do when they want their stick thrown. If only I was this ballsy with men whose clothing I hadn't destroyed.

Some vague sigh of resignation escaped him as he took my phone, and his eyes moved to me between every other character he typed. "That's a pretty accent you have." Another smile tugged at just the corner of his mouth, and I felt my cheeks deepen in colour. The audacity of it nearly made me frown, how very dare this man be so effortlessly beautiful on a Wednesday afternoon.

"English, yeah. I've been in the States for three years now, but the determination is paying off." I accepted my phone back with another apologetic laugh, heaped high with extra sugar "I'm really sorry, again."

"It's really fine, I promise. Look, ah — I was on my way somewhere, but if you throw me a message I can let you know about the dry cleaning." And just like that, he was moving to pass me already.

"Sure, have a good day! And sorry, again!" I half-turned to call my final apologies after him, dark hair picked up by the wind and swat across my face as I did. And then, he was gone. I turned back to look up the street, to watch the many people walking towards me. None of them looked like him, none of them took me by surprise like he had. I was dumbstruck, and I stood there on the pavement for a long moment, torn between the urge to celebrate my luck, and the defeaning reality that I had made an utter twat of myself.

I settled for the former, and held on to the spring in my step.