Ethan Harper was a naturalhistory photographer, the sort who spends weeks trekking through moorlands and cliffs, his life a string of expeditions and gallery openings. Clara Bennett was an architect, the kind who builds not just houses but a career with the precision of a drafting ruler.
Both were on their own, confident, each with a divorce behind them that taught them the value of personal space.
The idea popped up on a cramped flight to Edinburgh just one plane, two seats side by side, a single destination. Why not keep this thing light, no strings, no domestic drama? Ethan laughed, and Clara, with a smile, agreed. Neither of them expected it to last long, and none of Ethans studio mates believed it would either. In the backroom of the studio they even ran a quiet wager: how long would the elusive Ethan keep his new fling?
Usually the bets stretched into months.
Women were often taken by Ethan good looks, a creative spark, never dull, never greedy. But his colleagues also knew the other side of the genius photographer. He lived on whimsy, was impossible to live with, unpredictable in mood, and loved a tipple. Still, whenever he announced hed found love, the room exhaled relief. A lovestruck Ethan worked like a man possessed; his pictures buzzed with passion and life.
Then he met Clara, his real muse, a woman who asked for nothing more than the joy of meeting. Lets try it without the usual domestic hassle, no where have you been? and no why didnt you call?, Ethan suggested. Lifes hard enough already.
Clara nodded. She was sure it would be a brief fling, and after a tough divorce she wasnt keen on settling down. Their needs matched perfectly.
Ethan could spend a week living in Claras cosy flat a place built to every rule of harmony and then disappear for months into his cluttered studio, piles of gear and rolls of film. They flew together to York, then didnt see each other for a few weeks. Three days at a country house turned into three weeks apart.
A year later, Clara was the organiser of their little creative soirées.
Dreams do come true, she told her friends over martinis, grinning. As a kid I was obsessed with books about Arctic explorers strong, independent, always on the move. Ethans a bit like that; he goes off on an expedition behind the camera and comes back with flowers and those bright eyes.
Ethan was thrilled.
Claras a breath of fresh air, he told a mate over a glass of whisky. My lifes chaos. Sometimes I crawl home and cant even find the words. Other times I just need someone to listen and treat me like a kid. Most of the time I just need a week alone. She gets that. If we lived together, wed drive each other mad in twelve months. Instead, I always show up with flowers and a smile, like a date.
He allowed occasional flings on the side, but always returned to Clara. It felt like a karmic tie, something sturdier than a boring marriage. From the outside Clara always looked perfectly content.
Five years slipped by. Then the gallery Ethan worked with shut its doors, the magazine he contributed to hit a slump, and the creative collective theyd been part of slowly fell apart. Everyone went off chasing their own path.
A couple of years later, Clara ran into Leah at a coffee shop an old acquaintance from those early days. They caught up, reminisced, and inevitably the conversation turned to Ethan.
Clara gave a wry smile, staring into her cappuccino:
Yeah, were still on the same merrygoround. He drops by, then vanishes, then pops back in. Honestly, Im fed up. The moment anyone hints that its time to settle, he looks at me like a startled rabbit and asks, Are we not happy? Hes even jealous of his own shadow, scared I might walk away.
Leah asked, And you?
Clara sighed, Id love to live together, maybe have a kid. But Im not the only one in the picture, so Im not starting anything serious.
Leah probed, So you still love him?
Clara shrugged, Maybe. Or its just habit, or a stubborn hope that hell wake up one day, change, become the man I imagined. My mum says people like him never change. Everyone asks why I cling to someone who doesnt even know what he wants. I cant just walk away. Is this love?
Leah replied, Thats for you to decide. I never bought into the whole freerelationship thing, but you do what you must. Lifes short, you cant turn back the clock.
A few months later Clara finally gathered the courage to see a therapist. She talked about her fear of being alone, the burntout edges of the relationship, the hopes that never materialised. After a session she returned home, brewed a cup of tea, and perched at the kitchen table looking out the window. Her eye landed on an old photo frame a gift from Ethan.
It held a picture of them laughing, arms around each other against a sunset. She lifted it to dust it off, and the frame slipped, shattering. A tiny envelope fell out from the back.
Trembling, she tore it open.
Inside was a photograph not a staged shoot, but a candid snap of her sleeping, wrapped in a blanket, a lamp casting a soft glow over her sketches. Ethan had taken it without her knowing. On the back, in his own handwriting, hed written: The only place my inner chaos settles. Sorry I never found the bravery to say it aloud. Ive always been yours. I was just scared to admit it.
A week later, Ethan showed up as usual, a bunch of peonies in his hand. Clara opened the door and, instead of the usual grin, handed him the old photograph.
He stared at the picture, then at her, and the usual twinkle in his eye was replaced by a quiet, weary resignation.
It looks like, he said softly, our expeditions are coming to an end. Time to come home.
And this time he crossed the threshold not as a guest, but as someone finally ready to stay.
