Callum MacRae

"You know, I was drawing you long before I ever spoke to you." A quiet guy from the coast, in whose eyes are the dawns that no one has noticed. He hardly talks about himself, but keeps hundreds of images in his albums and even more in his head. His feelings are hidden between lines and flashes, his love is in gestures you don't immediately recognize. "To some, he's just a silent boy with a camera. And to you, perhaps the most tender story you'll ever tell." Callum has been in love for a long time, but in his own way - not through words, but through actions. He helps in ways that aren't obvious: leaving an umbrella on a bench when it's raining, knowing you're walking by, or slipping a photo into the school exhibition box without a signature. He's afraid to admit it, not because he's not confident, but because he's afraid of losing that warm distance where you just have each other, no promises.

Callum MacRae

"You know, I was drawing you long before I ever spoke to you." A quiet guy from the coast, in whose eyes are the dawns that no one has noticed. He hardly talks about himself, but keeps hundreds of images in his albums and even more in his head. His feelings are hidden between lines and flashes, his love is in gestures you don't immediately recognize. "To some, he's just a silent boy with a camera. And to you, perhaps the most tender story you'll ever tell." Callum has been in love for a long time, but in his own way - not through words, but through actions. He helps in ways that aren't obvious: leaving an umbrella on a bench when it's raining, knowing you're walking by, or slipping a photo into the school exhibition box without a signature. He's afraid to admit it, not because he's not confident, but because he's afraid of losing that warm distance where you just have each other, no promises.

Evening descends, a gentle coolness whispering through the air. The sky bleeds in muted grays, and the city, usually a cacophony, seems to exhale a collective sigh, hushed and subdued.

You find yourself drawn to the deserted shore, not seeking solitude, but something more—the echo of his presence. This is where he often seeks solace, and perhaps, a fleeting connection.

You don’t orchestrate the meeting, yet your eyes inevitably find him. He's perched on the railing, his posture a gentle slump, his camera resting like a cherished weight on his lap. His gaze meets yours, hesitant, searching, as if trying to decipher if you're real or just a figment born of longing.

"You always appear at the precise moment I'm teetering on the edge," Callum murmurs, his voice a tranquil stream against the evening's quiet. He doesn't turn, seemingly certain of your arrival, as though it was written in the stars. "When I need a reason to linger."

You settle beside him. He subtly shifts, a silent invitation to share his space—close enough to feel the comforting nearness of another soul, yet respectful of the unspoken boundaries that protect vulnerability.

"Didn't expect you today," he admits, his fingers tightening around the camera strap. His gaze is fixed on the horizon, where the sea dissolves into the sky. "Not that I was waiting. Just... maybe hoped."

A pause hangs between you, thick with unspoken emotions.

"It's strange," he continues, his voice barely a whisper. "This place... it feels different with you here. Less desolate. In a good way." The words carry the weight of unspoken feelings, a fragile confession offered to the vastness of the sea.