Shutter and Stroke

Clara didn't expect to see him again so soon.

She told herself their conversation yesterday was nothing more than passing curiosity. A moment caught in a shaft of light. A shared silence that artists often knew too well.

But as she slid into her seat in Contemporary Visual Theory, she saw the storm-gray eyes before she saw anything else.

Lucien was there. Back row. Hoodie up. Camera on the desk like a shield.

She chose the seat in front of him before she could overthink it.

Their professor, Madame Lefevre—a tiny woman with enormous red glasses—stood at the front of the room, arms folded.

"I have decided," she began, "that the best way for you to understand the intersection of visual mediums… is to pair painters with photographers. Artists and lens. You will create a piece together. One canvas. One photograph. One story."

Clara froze.

No. No, no, no. Not group projects.

"And the pairings," Madame Lefevre continued, "are non-negotiable."

She began calling out names. Some groaned. Some high-fived. Clara waited.

"Clara Bennett-Ronan," Madame Lefevre called, adjusting her glasses, "and Lucien Moreau."

Clara slowly turned to face him.

Lucien gave a small, amused shrug. "Apparently, fate likes clichés."

They sat on the low stone wall beneath the autumn-stained trees. Clara's sketchpad was open. Lucien had his camera slung over one knee, fingers absently adjusting the lens.

"So," Clara said, chewing the inside of her cheek, "what kind of photography do you actually do?"

Lucien looked out over the courtyard, like the answer was somewhere beyond them. "Portraits. But not the posed kind. I like… moments. Candid. People when they think no one's watching."

"Why?"

He glanced at her. "Because those are the most honest. The version of people they don't perform."

She thought about that. "That's kind of what I try to do with paint. Only I usually make it… more surreal. More dream than memory."

"Then maybe," Lucien said slowly, "we make something that meets in the middle."

He pulled out his phone, showing her a photo.

It was of a woman on the metro, alone, head resting against the glass, her eyes closed. City lights blurred outside the window.

"You took this?" Clara asked.

Lucien nodded. "She was asleep. But there was something about her… like she was dreaming of being someone else."

Clara's fingers itched for her brush.

"I could paint that," she murmured. "Not the window. Not the lights. Just the dream. Her version of escape."

Lucien smiled for the first time. A real one. Soft. Honest.

"Then let's start there."

Aria opened the door, surprised to see Lucien standing beside Clara, his hoodie soaked from the rain.

"You brought him to my studio?" Aria whispered, when Clara passed by with her sketchpad and Lucien in tow.

"He needed to see the space," Clara said breezily. "We're collaborating. Don't interrogate him."

Ronan appeared in the hallway, towel around his neck from a run. He stopped. Squinted.

"Is this the boy with the eyes?"

Clara groaned. "Stop making that his name."

Lucien smiled faintly and extended a hand. "Lucien Moreau. It's nice to meet you, sir."

Ronan took his hand slowly. "You photograph my daughter's dreams, and I'll photograph your license plate."

"Ronan," Aria said, smacking his chest lightly.

Clara rolled her eyes, already tugging Lucien into the back studio. "Ignore them. They're in love and neurotic."

The world outside blurred to silence as they stood in front of the blank canvas.

Lucien looked around, wide-eyed. "This is your mom's studio?"

Clara nodded, grabbing her paints. "She lets me use it sometimes. Says it reminds her of the early days."

Lucien picked up a framed photo on a nearby shelf—Aria and Ronan, younger, eyes full of fire and stubborn affection.

"You grew up surrounded by art," he said.

"Yeah."

"That's lucky."

She glanced at him. "You didn't?"

Lucien paused. "My mom's a nurse. My dad's… not really around. We moved around a lot. I found my first camera in a thrift store in Marseille."

Clara didn't press. She understood the way he said it — not as bitterness, but as fact.

They began sketching. He showed her the next photo he wanted to use: a boy, barefoot on a rooftop, arms outstretched, city beneath him.

"He's about to fall," she whispered.

"No," Lucien said. "He's about to fly."

Clara dipped her brush into violet.

"Then let's paint his wings."

They sat side-by-side, tired and quiet.

Lucien didn't talk much, but Clara found comfort in his silence. It wasn't awkward. It was… reflective. Like he felt deeply, but didn't always need to say it.

As the metro slowed at her stop, he looked at her and said, "I like working with you."

She blinked. "Really?"

Lucien nodded. "You don't fake anything. Not even your silences."

Clara gave a small smile. "I think that's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all semester."

The doors slid open. She stood, then paused.

"You coming next weekend?"

"To the studio?"

"To my show," she said. "School gallery. One piece. The theme is 'Firsts.'"

Lucien nodded. "Wouldn't miss it."

She stepped off the train, heart a little louder than before.

And Lucien watched her disappear through the crowd, thinking about all the ways people held light — and how Clara seemed to carry galaxies in her paint-stained hands.