The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Two

My jaw tightens. I don’t know why.

Lauren speaks up beside me. “They’ve shortlisted a few towns. But one stood out—Rosebury. Coastal village, southwest Cornwall. It’s got this sort of... faded charm.”

Theo nods. “Fishing docks. Cracked stone lanes. Flower shops and fog. The kind of place people write sad songs about.”

“Where’d you even find it?” I ask.

Leah jumps in, excited. “There was a photo essay from a local blog—some artist posted these sketches and notes about living there. Tiny town, but it looked like a painting. The team loved it.”

A soft thud starts in my chest.

Rosebury.

I’ve heard that name before.

It’s like hearing a melody I don’t remember learning, but somehow still know. A whisper from a dream I forgot the moment I woke up. I ignore it.

“You want me to take portraits of strangers in a fishing village,” I say slowly. “No sets. No stylists. No control.”

Theo laughs. “You say it like that, and it sounds terrible.”

Naomi is more serious. “We think your eye could show something most people miss. You catch the quiet in people. That’s what this needs.”

I sit back in my chair, arms crossed.

This isn’t what I do.

I shoot edges, silence, the kind of beauty that says nothing out loud. Not warm coffee and flower stands and weathered hands gripping a fishing net. That’s... intimacy. Emotion. The very thing I avoid.

“I don’t do soft,” I tell them.

“No,” Theo says, smiling. “But maybe that’s exactly why you should.”

The room falls quiet for a second. My eyes drift back to that photo of the man on the bench.

Rosebury.

Sea wind. Stone cottages. Something aching beneath the surface.

My hand tightens around the arm of the chair, just a little. It’s stupid, really, how one word can stir so much and still mean nothing at all.

But I hear myself say, “I’ll think about it.”

Which, for me, means yes.

It’s late. The kind of late where the world feels like it’s on mute.

Everyone’s gone. The office is a shadow of itself—desks bare, coffee cups abandoned mid-thought. I should’ve gone home hours ago, but I stayed. Told Lauren I needed to sort references for the Rosebury concept. Another lie I didn’t even bother dressing up.

I scroll through Leah’s email. She’d dropped a few links in: local artist blogs, independent contributors, small-town voices. I didn’t expect much.

But one catches my eye.

Simple header. A clean layout.
Soft graphite sketches of everyday things—rain slipping down a window, a girl carrying sunflowers, a crumbling café wall with ivy.

There’s something about them.
Not perfect. Not polished. But real. Honest in a way most art tries too hard to be.

I find myself scrolling.
Quiet details. Empty benches. A woman holding a child’s hand, sketched from behind.

My fingers slow.

There’s this one—
A seaside road, windblown. Lines soft and almost smudged, like memory.

I pause longer than I should.

The artist’s name in the corner: A. Nicolette.

Doesn’t ring anything. Probably some local illustrator Leah liked. Still...

There's something here. Something that sticks.

I save the link, close the tab.

In the stillness, I pull up an old folder of my own—past campaigns, discarded shots. Slideshow flicks through image after image. Years of work, framed and forgotten.

Then comes one.
From three years ago.
Blurry. Unused. The edge of a bench by the sea. A teacup left behind.

Not her. Not directly. But I feel it anyway.

Something clenches in my chest. Something I’ve ignored for too long.

Something has to shift.

I close the laptop.

Later, in the flat, I throw clothes into a bag without focus. Camera gear, chargers, film. I pack like I’m on autopilot.

I’m not excited about Rosebury. That’s not the word.

But I’m going.
And I don’t know if it’s the job pulling me.