It was just getting to the time of year when you needed a coat but it was not yet bitterly cold. It would be soon. I could just about see my breath on the air. The sun was setting early and the derelict buildings were basking in their golden hour glory. The one time each day that it was easy to see their beauty, so everyone got their cameras out.
I was stood at the station, not waiting for a train. The air hung still around me, heavy with oil fumes from the nearby mechanic. The roads were quiet, it was a sunday. Every 20 minutes or so a pair of orange headlights would flash by, but then they'd be gone and the stillness would return. Despite the cold nip in the air, my palms were sweaty but I didn't want to take my pink fluffy fleece off. I had only just bought it. My heartbeat was faster than normal but I was just standing there with some0ne i'd known for a year.
I was waiting for a kind of direction that I wouldn't be given. A kind that i'd have to find myself. He had his camera on his tripod and was changing the lenses while I kicked small stones off the platform.
For some reason this evening felt significant despite it being just like any other sunday. In hindsight I think it was because my mind had already decided I was going to leave, without me knowing. This was going to become one of the last times I was stood near him, without crying, arguing, or ill stale silence. I didn't know this then, maybe he did. He always protested that he knew me better than I knew myself. Maybe thats why he wanted to take pictures that night. He rarely took pictures of me.
I moved my hair between my fingers and smiled when I was supposed to. In the pictures I would look at my acne under my cheap foundation. I couldn't look at the smile on my face. It made me feel sick. The last picture we took that night was on a timer and he came and hugged me. He had his back to the camera and I stared at the floor.