The air in the darkroom always smells like vinegar and old rain. It's the scent of the stop bath—acetic acid—mixed with the damp, subterranean chill of the room itself. Most students avoid this place. It's too small, too enclosed, and the red safety light turns everyone into a monochromatic ghost.
I love it.
Here, time doesn't rush. Outside, in the hallways of Class 2-B, time is a sprint. It's a series of rapid-fire conversations, sudden emotional outbursts, and the frantic energy of youth. But in here, under the safelight, time is measured in seconds of exposure and minutes of chemical agitation.
I stood over the developing tray, watching the image materialize on the resin-coated paper.
This is the magic trick I never get tired of. You stare at a blank white sheet, rocking the tray gently to keep the chemicals moving, and then, like a memory rising to the surface of a pond, the shadows appear. Then the mid-tones. Finally, the highlights.
A face formed in the developer.
It was her. The transfer student.
Her name, I had learned three hours ago, was Mai Sakuraba.
She had arrived during homeroom with the kind of entrance that usually signals a genre shift. The teacher had written her name on the chalkboard. She had bowed perfectly. The class had collectively held its breath because she was, objectively, stunning—long dark hair, eyes that seemed a little too sharp for a high schooler, and a posture that suggested she was bracing for an impact.
But I hadn't taken this photo during homeroom.
I had taken it twenty minutes before school started, by the bicycle racks.
I had been testing a 50mm lens I bought cheap at a pawn shop, checking for fungus on the glass. I was aiming at the texture of the chain-link fence when she walked into the frame. She didn't see me. I was, as usual, part of the background scenery.
In the photo, Mai Sakuraba wasn't the poised transfer student. She looked... lost. She was staring at the school map on her phone, her brow furrowed, biting her lower lip in genuine frustration. A stray lock of hair was stuck to her lip gloss.
I rocked the tray. The liquid sloshed over the paper.
In the photo, she was alone.
"Don't overdevelop it," I whispered to myself.
I used the tongs to pull the print out, letting it drip before moving it to the stop bath.
The moment I captured in this frame lasted exactly one-sixtieth of a second. Immediately after the shutter clicked, the inevitable happened.
Ken arrived.
I remembered it clearly. Ken had come skidding around the corner on his bike, late as always. He had braked too hard, the back wheel sliding. He didn't hit her—he has protagonist reflexes, after all—but the sudden noise made her jump. She dropped her phone. Ken caught it before it hit the ground.
"Whoops! Sorry about that! Are you okay?"
I had watched from twenty feet away, camera lowered.
I saw the shift. I saw the frustration vanish from her face, replaced by surprise, and then, that slow, dawning curiosity. I saw the way the sunlight hit Ken's profile just right. I saw the narrative latches click into place.
She wasn't a lost girl anymore. She was a Love Interest.
Ken laughed, handed her the phone, and pointed her toward the entrance. She thanked him, her cheeks flushed, and watched him lock up his bike. She didn't look at the map again. She didn't look at the fence. She certainly didn't look at me.
I moved the print to the fixer.
This photo in the tray was a lie now. It was a document of a person who no longer existed. The Mai Sakuraba in the chemicals was solitary and confused. The Mai Sakuraba currently in Class 2-B was already part of the Tsukishiro constellation. During lunch, I had seen her glancing at him. I had seen Hina Arai stiffen when Mai walked near Ken's desk.
I hung the photo on the drying line, clamping it with a wooden pin.
Under the red light, Mai stared back at me.
"You're going to fall for him," I told the wet paper.
The photo didn't answer.
I sighed, wiping my hands on a towel. I felt that familiar, dull ache in my chest—the jealousy of the observer.
It wasn't that I wanted Mai Sakuraba. I didn't know her. But I envied the collision. I envied the fact that Ken could crash his bike and accidentally start a love story, while I could stand perfectly still, frame the shot perfectly, focus the lens perfectly... and still be the only one who didn't develop.
I turned off the safelight and switched on the main overheads. The white light was harsh, blinding me for a second. The magic evaporated. The darkroom was just a closet with plumbing again.
I grabbed my bag. Ken was waiting for me by the shoe lockers. He wanted to go to the arcade. He said he needed to "clear his head" because the new transfer student had asked him for a tour of the school, and he didn't understand why Hina was mad about it.
I checked the drying print one last time.
"Good luck, Sakuraba-san," I muttered, and turned out the light.