BETWEEN WORLDS - Chapter 15
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The camera felt heavier than Azeil remembered, not just its physical weight but the gravity of memory. Weeks of dust had settled on the vintage Nikon, his mother had gifted it with enthusiasm, explaining f-stops and shutter speeds like she did legal briefs.
"You don't have to do this today," Nia said, her voice gentle as she watched him turn the camera over. They sat on his bed, Saturday light filtering through curtains, the open case like a time capsule. "We could walk around the district first. Get a feel for it."
Azeil shook his head, thumb finding the camera's advance lever. "No, I want to. It's been too long."
The last photos would be from before, his mother at Highland Prep's winter carnival, her rare smile captured in light. The images waited, undeveloped and unseen, suspended like much else in his life.
"Besides," he said, meeting Nia's gaze, "you promised me urban decay and industrial ruin. How often does a girl offer that on a Saturday morning?"
Her laugh brightened the room, genuine without the careful restraint typical of Highland Prep's interactions.
"I deliver on my promises," she replied, pulling out a folded map. "Mapped out the whole route: the old factory, abandoned station, half-collapsed warehouse with graffiti." She spread the map, tracing paths in colored highlighter. "I've timed it for optimal lighting, afternoon sun hits all those broken windows just right."
"You've thought about this," Azeil said, appreciating her effort.
"Well, yeah," she said while tucking hair behind her ear. "You mentioned it at the football game, and it seemed important. To you, I mean."
The reference to their first real conversation surprised him, six weeks ago when she'd sat beside him, creating conversation without agenda.
"My brother thinks I'm crazy for wanting to explore abandoned buildings on a Saturday," she said, lightening the moment. "He says there's a mall twenty minutes away."
"The mall lacks texture," Azeil replied, using a term his mother had taught him for evaluating subjects. "Or history, or decay, none of the interesting parts."
"Exactly!" Nia exclaimed. "The interesting stuff happens where things are falling apart or being restored. The in-between spaces."
As they neared the door, Azeil felt the camera's weight against his chest, a partial reclamation from grief's isolation.
"Hey," he said, and Nia turned back. "Thanks for this." His gratitude went beyond today's trip, it acknowledged her consistent presence in his fragmented world, allowing authentic expression.
"For what?" she asked, though she understood.
"For remembering it mattered," Azeil replied. "The photography."
Her smile showed recognition. "That's what you do with important things, you remember them."
Outside, autumn sunlight lit Nia's face. "Ready to find beauty in unexpected places?" she asked, keys in hand.
Azeil nodded, feeling the camera as an anchor to both past and present. "As ready as I'll ever be."
"Stop!" Azeil shouted, urgency in his voice, making Nia hit the brakes. The old Toyota stopped suddenly next to the crumbling wall of what used to be a busy factory.
"What is it?" Nia asked, looking at another part of the deserted textile mill they had been going around.
But Azeil was already moving, camera raised, stepping from the car with a fluidity she hadn't witnessed before. His usual basketball precision transformed into something more intuitive, like a dancer responding to unheard music.
Nia quietly closed her door and saw what had caught his eye: a thin ray of light coming through the broken roof, shining on a single rusted loom. Nature was taking over the building, vines were growing through broken windows, and a small tree was emerging from the debris. Dust floated in the golden light.
Azeil carefully moved around, capturing the scene with his camera. He clicked it, once, twice, three times, each shot showing a different angle of the striking scene.
"The light won't last much longer," he said without lowering the camera. "The sun creates this effect for about ten minutes."
Nia remained silent, sensing that words would intrude. She watched Azeil work, struck by his complete absorption. For weeks, she'd observed his careful navigation of social terrain, each interaction measured, calculated. Now that protective layer had dissolved, replaced by pure engagement.
After the final shot, Azeil lowered the camera, exhaling with quiet satisfaction. "Sorry for the sudden stop," he said, turning to her with an expression more open than she'd seen. "The light was just—"
"Don't apologize," Nia interrupted. "I've never seen anyone photograph like that. Like you're having a conversation with what you're shooting."
Azeil considered this, head tilting slightly. "My mom used to say something similar," he said, the reference coming without its usual edge of pain. "She called it 'listening to the subject's voice.' It's about what the scene wants to say, not just what I want it to show."
The simple philosophy revealed layers about both Azeil and his mother, their shared belief in discovering beauty rather than imposing it. Another piece of the complex puzzle Nia had been assembling since their first conversation.
"What else did she teach you?" Nia asked gently.
Azeil moved closer to the illuminated loom, expression thoughtful. "To find stories in overlooked places, urban spaces, forgotten corners. She said beauty wasn't just in perfect landscapes but in decay and transition. The spaces between what was and what might become."
Nia heard echoes of her own approach in his words, seeking the authentic person beneath careful presentation, finding connection in the in-between moments.
"I like that," she said simply. "Finding beauty in the spaces between."
Azeil nodded, warming under her attention. "She saw possibility where others saw problems." He raised the camera again, adjusting focus. "I'm still learning to see that way."
"Aren't we all?" Nia replied, the question carrying weight beyond its surface.
As Azeil captured one final image, Nia studied him the way he studied his subjects. The Azeil from the football game had been contained, emotions regulated, presence calculated. This version revealed something less guarded, passion for creation, genuine connection to memory.
"Come on," she said as he lowered the camera. "The graffiti warehouse is next, and the light should be perfect in about twenty minutes."
Back at the car, Azeil carefully handled his gear. The afternoon had become more meaningful, not just about exploring, but discovering together, with each place offering more than just photos.
"It's odd," Azeil said as Nia drove down the bumpy streets. "This is still Langston, but it feels like a whole different place."
His observation carried philosophical weight, how different realities could exist within the same boundaries, how transformation happened without relocation.
"That's what I love about these places," Nia replied, swerving around a particularly deep crater. "Nothing stays static, even when it looks permanent."
Azeil nodded, recognizing the depth beneath her casual words. "Mom would have appreciated that perspective. She believed in adaptation."
The memory emerged without sharp grief, marking another small healing, his mother's absence acknowledged but not paralyzing.
Minutes later, they reached a sprawling warehouse, its architecture abstracted by partial collapse. The eastern wall had become a canvas for street artists, everything from simple tags to elaborate murals.
"This is incredible," Azeil breathed, camera already rising. "The way destruction and creation coexist."
He moved with purpose, capturing both decay and artistry. Each frame reflected thoughtful composition, not just documenting but exploring the philosophical tension between abandonment and reclamation.
Nia found a stable vantage point, content to observe. The afternoon sun backlit the warehouse, creating dramatic shadows that made the vibrant artwork pulse with life.
"You're not just taking pictures," she observed. "You're having a dialogue with this place."
Azeil lowered the camera, considering her assessment with the same attention he'd given the warehouse. "Photography only makes sense to me that way," he admitted. "Otherwise it's just recording, capturing existence without understanding meaning."
His approach revealed something fundamental about how Azeil engaged the world, not merely observing but interacting, not just documenting but building relationship. Nia recognized in this philosophy how he navigated everything from Highland's privilege to Langston's authenticity to his father's awkward attempts at connection.
"Look at this," he said, gesturing toward a graffiti-covered section. "The composition is extraordinary."
Nia joined him, immediately seeing what had captured his attention. An elaborate mural covered the warehouse's northwestern corner, not typical street art but something more sophisticated. Against a deep blue background, golden architectural elements seemed simultaneously under construction and in decay, blurring the line between building and dissolution. Stylized human figures moved through this landscape, some dismantling structures while others rebuilt identical components.
"It's like they're tearing down and building up simultaneously," Azeil said, voice filled with wonder. "Creation and destruction as parts of the same process."
The observation transcended art appreciation, offering insight into transformation itself, how change happens not through replacement but through integration.
Azeil raised his camera again, framing the mural within its context. Multiple clicks captured different aspects of the complex visual narrative.
"Whoever created this understands something important," he said, lowering the camera. "About how things can change without being destroyed. Sometimes renewal requires dismantling."
Nia studied him, struck by the thoughtfulness in his expression. This wasn't the calculated Azeil from Langston's hallways or the performative version from Highland Prep. This was someone integrated, able to engage complexity without needing resolution.
"That's pretty profound for a Saturday afternoon," she said, her teasing carrying genuine appreciation.
"What can I say?" Azeil smiled. "Abandoned buildings bring out my philosophical side."
His self-awareness held honest acknowledgment of his own complexity, no apology for depth, no embarrassment about meaning-making.
Nia smiled back, warmed by witnessing this evolution beyond self-protection, trust developing through presence rather than performance.
"We've got one more stop," she said, checking her watch. "The old railway station should have perfect light now, and there's supposedly a wall of broken windows with trees growing through them."
"Photographer heaven," Azeil said with genuine lightness. "Lead the way."
As they returned to the car, Nia noticed how Azeil moved with newfound ease compared to his earlier cautiousness at Langston. He handled the camera with confidence, something integrating before her eyes. Not healing through forgetting, but strengthening through reclamation.
"Thank you," Azeil said as they reached the Toyota. "For this. For..." He gestured vaguely, struggling for words.
"For urban decay on a Saturday?" Nia offered, adding levity.
"For helping me remember this part of myself," he clarified, the camera now a natural extension of his hands. "I wasn't sure I could still do this after... everything."
The unfinished sentence carried enormous weight, after his mother's death, after losing Highland Prep, after grief that had severed him from core pieces of identity.
"Some things don't disappear when circumstances change," Nia replied, the observation extending beyond photography to encompass his entire disrupted sense of self. "They're still there when you're ready to find them again."
Azeil nodded, understanding visible in his expression. "I'm beginning to see that."
The acknowledgment marked genuine growth, recognizing that adaptation didn't require complete reinvention, that identity could endure through transformation.
As they drove toward their final destination, autumn sunlight filling the car, Nia reflected on the changes since their first conversation at the football game. It wasn't just Azeil's integration into Langston's social fabric or his developing connection with basketball and teammates, it was this, the friendship they'd built through presence and genuine engagement rather than strategy.
The old railway station awaited, its abandoned platforms promising new opportunities for Azeil's artistic voice. The photographs seemed secondary now; the act of creating symbolized something larger, reclaiming purpose amid chaos, finding beauty in disruption.
"The light's perfect," Azeil said, camera ready, moving with purpose toward what most would dismiss as urban decay.
Nia watched him frame his first shot, suddenly understanding something essential about both photography and healing, how perspective could transform ruins into revelation, how beauty emerged from brokenness when viewed from the right angle.
Different frames. New perspectives. Recomposing what already existed.
Perhaps that was the most crucial skill of all.
"Mom's probably still sleeping," Nia said as they turned onto Maple Street. "Night shifts are tough, she usually sleeps until about four."
Azeil nodded, noticing how different the street looked in daylight, simple homes with small yards and early Halloween decorations. It felt stable and working-class, unlike the estates at Highland Prep or his dad's neighborhood.
"Are you sure I can come in? I don't want to bother your family," he said, feeling nervous.
"It's fine," Nia replied as she parked in the narrow driveway of a small brick house with neat hedges. "Mom wanted to meet you this morning. She's tired of hearing about you but hasn't met you yet." She looked a little embarrassed. "Also, Jason is at a friend's until dinner, so it's quiet right now."
Nia talking about her family's routine reminded Azeil how different her home life was from his own, more connected and less lonely despite similar problems.
As they entered through the side door, the kitchen was simple but clean, with schedules and report cards on the fridge held by magnets. The living room felt cozy and lived-in, filled with family photos and worn books.
"Our palace," Nia said with sarcasm. "Not fancy, but it works."
"It's nice," Azeil said, meaning it.
As Nia went into the kitchen, Azeil looked at the photos that told her story, Nia and her brother at different ages, her mom in nursing scrubs and regular clothes, taken in their backyard and at the Grand Canyon.
One photo caught his eye, Nia at thirteen, holding a trophy, with her mother smiling proudly next to her. The joy in the image made something move in Azeil's chest, reminding him of his complicated relationship with his own mother.
"Debate championship, eighth grade," Nia explained, coming back with two glasses. "Mom took off work early, which she rarely did since she was working two jobs then."
Her casual comment showed their bond, sacrifice and priorities despite hard times.
"You look happy," Azeil said as he took a glass.
"I was," Nia replied, sitting across from him. "Nervous but happy. That was when I realized I might be good at something that mattered."
Azeil liked her honesty about both winning and worrying.
"Your mom looks proud," he noted, seeing the love in her mother's expression.
"She's always been my biggest supporter," Nia said quietly. "Even when she didn't understand what I was doing, she believed I could do anything."
The comment was real appreciation, without the careful distance Azeil noticed in Highland conversations.
Before he could respond, footsteps came down the hall.
"I thought I heard voices," a woman said, entering the room in flannel pajamas and a nursing school t-shirt. Despite being obviously tired, her warm expression met Azeil with friendly curiosity. "You must be Azeil."
He stood automatically, manners kicking in. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you for having me."
Approval flickered across Mrs. Robinson's face, not the calculating look he was used to but simple recognition of politeness.
"No 'ma'am' necessary," she said, coming into the room. "Elena is fine. Or Nurse Robinson if you need medical attention, which I hope you don't."
Her humor felt welcoming. As she took an armchair, Azeil noticed similarities between mother and daughter, beyond looking alike, there was something engaging about both of them, attention given without holding back.
"Azeil brought his camera," Nia said, pointing toward the case. "We explored the factory district."
"Finding treasure in what others throw away," Elena observed, getting the deeper meaning. "Nia mentioned photography connects you with your mother."
The mention caught Azeil off-guard. At Highland, her absence was carefully avoided, while at Langston, many didn't know enough to ask. Here, Elena spoke of her directly, acknowledging reality without drama.
"It was," Azeil replied, voice steady despite the weight. "Is," he corrected, emphasizing their ongoing connection. "We started when I was twelve. Film, not digital. Mom said it taught patience."
Elena nodded with clear understanding. "Some things can't be rushed. In nursing, healing follows the body's timeline, not the doctor's."
She settled deeper into her chair, tiredness giving way to real curiosity. "Did you find good subjects today?"
Her question invited honesty, real engagement rather than polite conversation. Azeil described the factory, light streaming through rusted machinery, the graffiti mural turning decay into art. Words flowed easily, not calculated like his usual social encounters.
Elena listened with complete attention, absorbing his descriptions and asking thoughtful questions.
"That mural sounds amazing," she said. "Finding new purpose in abandoned space, that's like many life changes."
Her insight hit deep, putting words to feelings he'd had during their exploration.
"That's exactly what I thought," he replied, feeling connection form naturally. "Like something ended, but something else began in the same space."
Elena smiled with understanding beyond simple agreement, someone seeing his real engagement.
"Hard to see in the moment," she observed gently. "Easier looking back or forward, but during the change, that's when perspective matters most."
Her words hit home, not generic wisdom but direct application to his situation. The shift between Highland and Langston, his mother's absence and father's presence, the balance between being alone and connecting.
"Mom's big on perspective," Nia added with affection. "Twenty years of night shifts teach you to see things differently."
"Hard times make the best teachers," Elena replied with dry humor. "Speaking of which," she glanced at the wall clock with sudden awareness "I need to start dinner soon if we're going to feed your brother before he dies from teenage hunger."
"We can head out," Nia suggested, straightening as if to leave. "Give you more time to rest before your shift tonight."
"Absolutely not," Elena replied gently but firmly. "Azeil is staying for dinner. That's final." She faced him directly, her invitation genuine. "Unless you have other plans, of course."
The invitation felt warm and real, without strategy or obligation, so different from Highland's formal gatherings or his dad's awkward attempts at connection.
"I'd like that," Azeil said, surprised by his honesty. "If it's no trouble."
"The trouble would be hearing about it from Nia if I let you leave unfed," Elena smiled, her fatigue brightening into warmth. "Besides, I'm making pasta. The sauce won't mind an extra portion." Her simple logic offered genuine welcome without expectation.
As Elena moved toward the kitchen, purpose temporarily masked her exhaustion. Azeil found himself reconsidering family dynamics, recognizing connection built on mutual consideration rather than rigid structure or casual neglect.
"I told you she'd like you," Nia said quietly once her mother disappeared into the kitchen. "She doesn't invite just anyone for dinner."
"She's different than I expected," Azeil admitted, searching for the right words. "More direct."
"Twenty years of telling doctors they're wrong will do that," Nia said with pride. "Mom doesn't complicate things unnecessarily. Life's hard enough without adding layers." This echoed Nia's own approach to everything, genuine engagement without performance.
"Want to see the backyard?" Nia stood. "Mom's garden is basically her second job. Sometimes I think she loves those tomatoes more than us."
The teasing held real affection, the kind of family humor that could exist without threatening connection. Azeil followed her to the back door, camera still around his neck, its weight now familiar.
Outside, the yard reflected Elena Robinson's approach to everything, practical beauty. Vegetable gardens laid out with precision while flowering plants softened the edges, revealing someone who cared about aesthetics but understood function. Different from Highland's manicured perfection or his father's minimal maintenance, beauty earned through effort rather than money or neglect.
"Mom says gardening keeps her sane," Nia said as they settled on a bench under an old oak. "She believes in controlling what you can control and accepting what you can't." The philosophy extended beyond plants, applicable to circumstances, relationships, identity shifts during transition. Azeil nodded, understanding without needing to analyze.
"Smart woman, your mom," he said with genuine respect.
"Usually," Nia smiled, her whole face changing. "Don't tell her I said that, she already thinks she knows everything."
The affection in her teasing opened space for Azeil's next question. "Have you always been close?"
Nia considered this. "Not in the same way. When I was little, it was about security, knowing she was there even when working nights. Now it feels more like partnership. She trusts my judgment even when she doesn't understand my choices."
This explained what Azeil had observed between them, mutual respect that went beyond typical parent-child dynamics. Unlike his relationship with his mother, which had felt more like management, or his current navigation with his father's uncertain territory.
"That's rare," he said, meaning it.
"It is," Nia agreed. "We had to work for it, especially after Dad left. We redefined everything, responsibilities, decision-making, priorities when money was tight. Wasn't always smooth, but we figured it out."
Azeil appreciated her honesty about both struggle and success, truth without drama.
The back door opened and Elena appeared, dish towel over her shoulder. "Jason just called, apparently he's dying of homework-induced starvation. The drama runs deep in this family," she announced.
Nia rolled her eyes in perfect sister fashion. "Translation: he's bored at Kevin's and can smell pasta sauce from six blocks away."
"Both things can be true," Elena said wisely. "Dinner in fifteen minutes. Azeil, you're on garlic bread duty if you're willing. Nia can teach you our highly scientific method of butter and garlic powder."
The casual assignment felt different from interactions with his father, no testing boundaries, just practical inclusion.
"I can handle that," Azeil said, genuinely wanting to help.
As they followed Elena inside, Nia's hand found his briefly, fingers connecting for a moment before letting go. Simple contact based on shared experience rather than strategy or expectation.
Unlike Highland's choreographed social dynamics or the careful navigation required at his father's place, this felt increasingly natural. Belonging rooted in authenticity rather than performance.
For the first time in months, Azeil felt present without calculating future advantages or mourning past losses. Just here, now, with his camera around his neck, garlic bread responsibility ahead, and the warmth of Nia's brief touch still on his palm, specific reality rather than abstract possibility.
The during part, as Elena had called it. Where perspective mattered most.
"Pass the garlic bread to Azeil before you devour it, Jason."
Elena's tone carried the perfect blend of affection and authority that defined her parenting, direct but gentle. Jason Robinson, a solid fifteen-year-old who shared Nia's build but with sharper features, rolled his eyes dramatically before complying.
"Sorry," he said to Azeil with exaggerated contrition. "Carbs are essential for athletic performance. Scientific fact."
"That's not how nutrition works," Nia countered automatically, classic sibling reflex.
"Azeil plays basketball," Jason declared as if this settled everything. The assumption of shared understanding, athlete to athlete, no explanation needed, caught Azeil off guard in a good way.
"Carbs are important," he agreed, accepting the basket with a small smile. "Maybe not an entire loaf per person though."
Jason grinned at the partial victory. "See? Basketball wisdom." He turned to Azeil with renewed interest. "Nice free throws against Westbrook. Did Flash Johnson try to start something after?"
"Jason," Elena warned quietly.
"What? It's just a question," Jason protested, though he straightened slightly, recognizing the boundary.
"It's fine," Azeil said, appreciating her protective instinct. "No fight. Flash was frustrated. Happens in games." The straightforward answer that would have felt vulnerable three weeks ago now came naturally, honest without being defensive.
"Still cool," Jason declared, loading more pasta with teenage efficiency. "Football's better though. More contact, less running around."
"More concussions, shorter careers," Nia shot back, the sibling dynamic comfortably restored.
"Children," Elena intervened patiently. "Not everyone finds your sports debates as riveting as you do." She turned to Azeil with genuine curiosity. "Nia mentioned you transferred from Highland Prep. How's Langston Hughes treating you?"
The question carried weight, an invitation to either complain or perform, but Elena's sincerity made honest answers feel possible.
"Different," Azeil said, choosing his words carefully. "Not sure what I thought it would be, but it wasn't this."
"Transitions rarely go as planned," Elena commented, sharing her experience. "Especially when they aren't our choice." She acknowledged his situation, allowing for open discussion.
"Yeah," Azeil replied, his voice steady. "My mom had everything organized at Highland, classes, college applications, all of it. Here, I'm just trying to figure things out." He mentioned this honestly, recognizing her absence, his current journey, and the uncertainty ahead.
Elena nodded, pausing to think. "The most valuable lessons can't always be taught; you often learn them through unexpected experiences." Her words emphasized the combination of change and growth.
"Mom loves sharing life lessons," Nia said, a teasing tone in her voice. "I've been in the 'School of Hard Knocks' since I could walk, paying tuition with skinned knees and broken plans."
"It's the best kind of education," Elena said. "Even if the lessons can be tough."
Their easy rhythm gave Azeil courage to ask what he really wanted to know. "How did you figure it out? Managing everything on your own?"
Elena's expression shifted, recognizing the weight behind his question, not small talk, but a genuine search for guidance. She didn't rush her answer.
"One day at a time," she said, the phrase carrying more weight than when Principal Peterson had offered it that first morning at Langston. "And not gracefully. Plenty of burnt dinners, missed appointments, moments when it felt impossible." Her honesty contained no self-pity, just truth. "But you learn to build new routines, different from what you planned, but they work."
The insight reached beyond Elena's specific situation, speaking to Azeil's navigation, his father's fumbling attempts at connection, his own integration into Langston's ecosystem. Not strategy, but authentic engagement with what was real.
"Plus, you had us," Jason interjected, revealing genuine appreciation beneath his teenage facade. "We helped. Sometimes."
"Sometimes," Elena agreed, exhaustion transforming into warmth. "Though your version of helping often created twice the work."
The teasing revealed their foundation, solid enough to withstand humor, honest enough to acknowledge imperfection without demanding pretense.
Conversation flowed through the rest of dinner, Jason's football team victory, Nia's debate tournament prep, Elena's amusing hospital story. Natural exchange, free from social calculation.
Azeil found himself participating with growing ease, discussing basketball mechanics and complimenting Elena's cooking without his usual defensive layers. Genuine presence instead of performed participation.
When dinner ended, he instinctively offered to help clear, not calculating his guest status, just responding to household rhythm. Loading the dishwasher felt surprisingly grounding in its simple purpose.
"You're a keeper," Elena said as he arranged plates, the observation genuine rather than flattery. "Jason develops mysterious paralysis whenever dishes need attention."
"I heard that," Jason called from the living room, where he'd retreated with his phone.
"You were supposed to," Elena called back. Their exchanges flowed easily, direct without harshness, teasing without cruelty, boundaries maintained effortlessly.
As cleanup wound down, Nia approached. "Want to see the backyard? The solar lights just came on, it looks completely different at night."
The invitation was simple, sharing something she valued. Azeil accepted, following her outside without weighing social implications.
The yard had transformed, solar lights traced garden paths, casting dramatic shadows. Beauty cultivated through personal investment, different from his father's utilitarian porch bulb.
They settled on the earlier bench, night air holding October's mix of warmth and chill. Stars pierced the darkness above their outdoor sanctuary.
"Thank you," Azeil said, gratitude extending beyond dinner or the afternoon's photography. "For today. All of it."
Nia smiled in the moonlight. "You already said that."
"That was different," Azeil explained. "That was for the photos, the planning. This is for everything else, your mom, your house, letting me see this part of your world." His acknowledgment was genuine, not performed.
"You're the first person from school I've brought here," Nia admitted, without romantic implication.
"Really?" Azeil was surprised. "But you know everyone."
Nia considered carefully. "I know a lot of people, but that's different from letting them know me. This is actually me, not just student council Nia."
The distinction resonated, the gap between public persona and private reality.
"I get that," he said. "At Highland, nobody saw the real me, just whatever fit their expectations."
"And at Langston?" Nia asked gently.
Azeil thought about it, acknowledging the differences. "Less performance, more... actual connection. Like today, the photography, dinner, it all felt real in ways Highland never did."
"That's what I noticed at the football game," Nia said. "You were just there, watching, not working angles."
"My mom always said the first rule of both photography and life is to see what's actually there, not what you expect to find."
"Smart woman," Nia observed, the simple acknowledgment carrying no excessive sympathy or dismissive rush, just genuine respect for wisdom regardless of its source.
"She was," Azeil agreed, past tense softening grief into gentle ache. "Would have liked you, I think."
"Yeah?" Nia's simple response held weight.
"Definitely," Azeil confirmed. "She appreciated honest conversation." The tribute came naturally, reflecting both his mother's values and his appreciation for Nia.
Comfortable silence settled between them, filled with understanding rather than awkwardness. Stars wheeled overhead while night insects hummed softly. Nia found his hand, fingers intertwining easily, connection defined by authenticity rather than strategy. They stayed that way as night air cooled with October's promise.
"I should probably head home," Azeil finally said, acknowledging the hour. "Your mom has to work tonight."
Nia nodded, understanding without explanation. "I'll drive you," she said, standing but keeping his hand. Practical concern, not performance.
Walking toward the house, their joined hands swung lightly, Azeil focused on the present rather than analyzing past or future.
Here, now, with Nia's hand warm in his, stars overhead, the Robinson house glowing behind them, experience over theory.
Azeil's father was still awake when Nia's car pulled into the driveway, the porch light illuminating his tall frame as he stood with arms crossed, not aggressively, but with concern poorly disguised as casual observation. The clock on Nia's dashboard showed 10:37 PM, later than Azeil had realized but reasonable for a Saturday night.
"Looks like someone was waiting up," Nia observed without judgment, just recognition of the evident.
"Yeah," Azeil agreed, feeling unexpected warmth despite comparing his father's method to his mother's detailed monitoring approach. She tracked his whereabouts through schedules and precise communication, expecting updates and specific return times, while his father waited, physically present until he saw Azeil safe.
"I had a good time today," Nia said as she gathered her camera case, her voice sincere rather than strategically positioned. "The photography, dinner, all of it."
"Me too," Azeil replied, meaning it. "Thank your mom again for dinner. And for..." He gestured vaguely, searching for words to convey Elena's blend of wisdom and warmth. "For everything, I guess."
Nia smiled, moonlight catching her expression. "I will. She liked you, by the way. Said you have 'old soul eyes.' That's high praise from Elena."
The comment felt warm, genuine appreciation from someone who recognized Azeil's value without performance. Not Highland's strategic networking, but authentic connection.
"I liked her too," Azeil replied sincerely. "Your whole family, even Jason with his aggressive bread consumption."
Nia laughed easily. "He ate three-quarters of a loaf alone. That's actually restraint by Jason-metrics."
Their shared amusement felt genuine, extending their comfortable connection. For a heartbeat, neither moved, suspended between conclusion and continuation.
The air between them changed, molecules rearranging with electric potential. Azeil studied Nia's face in the dashboard's dim glow, the curve of her smile, the way moonlight caught in her eyes, features he'd been cataloging since their first conversation at the football game. Weeks of awareness crystallized in that moment.
Azeil bravely leaned in and kissed Nia, their lips meeting with weeks of hidden desire.
His hand moved to the back of her neck, fingers in her hair as the kiss deepened. Nia matched his passion, pulling him closer as if they needed to be together. The camera case fell away as Azeil focused on her warmth and their shared breath.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathing hard, Azeil felt different, like he had changed because of this moment with Nia. They exchanged looks, understanding each other without words. Nia gently touched his cheek and leaned in again for a kiss that confirmed their feelings.
"I've wanted to do that," she whispered, her voice trembling. "For weeks."
"Me too," Azeil said, honestly expressing the bond that had formed since their first real conversation on those cold metal bleachers.
Nia smiled, showing both vulnerability and certainty. "Good to know we were on the same page. If I'd known the photography trip would lead to this, I might have suggested it sooner."
"Worth the wait," Azeil replied sincerely.
As he got out of the car with the camera case, Azeil felt something change in him, not closure, but a sense of moving forward. The kiss symbolized a true connection built through being present, not performance.
His father was on the porch as Nia's car drove off, watching the scene from a distance. Azeil anticipated awkward questions but only received a nod from Jackson, an acknowledgment without prying.
"Good day?" Jackson asked simply.
"Really good, actually," Azeil said. A smile of genuine happiness crossed his father's face, not out of parental pride but real pleasure in Azeil's experience.
"The camera's back in action, I see," Jackson said as they entered the house, pointing to the case.
"Yeah," Azeil replied, feeling pleased by his father's recognition of its importance. "Took some good shots at the old factory district."
Jackson nodded, understanding without needing explanation. "Your mother would like that. She always said you had an eye for things others missed."
Azeil felt this acknowledgment deeply, bridging their shared memories of her without strategic intent. "She did say that," he confirmed, creating momentary connection amid past distance.
Father and son stood briefly in the living room, uncertain how to end their interaction. Jackson touched Azeil's shoulder simply, acknowledging their connection without performative gestures.
"Get some rest," he said, concern hidden in minimal words. "You look tired. Good tired, but still."
The remark showed more attention than Azeil expected, recognizing his fatigue without his mother's detailed monitoring.
"It was a full day," Azeil agreed.
Jackson nodded and moved toward his bedroom, showing the weariness of a week's labor. Their farewell was simple, conclusion without unnecessary drama.
Alone, Azeil reflected on the day's experiences: the photography trip rekindling his creativity, dinner at Nia's revealing family dynamics he hadn't fully grasped, and the kiss that acknowledged genuine connection. Not complete transformation but a step forward, growth rather than stagnation, opened possibilities where there had been absence.
What happens next? The next chapter posts on Monday, July 7th 2025. You can subscribe below.
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Chapter Index
Between Worlds is a fiction novel by Craig Griffin. New chapters post every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Subscribe to get them delivered to your inbox.