Fragile by M. Leighton

Kelly cleared her throat loudly, drawing both his and Miracle’s gaze toward her.  She raised her brows and, without saying a word, effectively told them to watch themselves.  Hardy silently applauded her aptitude for nonverbal communication.  He got her message loud and clear.
    “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she said pointedly, slowly turning to make her exit.
    When she’d disappeared from sight and could be heard banging around in the kitchen, Hardy finally let his eyes drift back to Miracle.  It had taken all the willpower he could muster not to gawk at her any more than what he had while her mother was in the room.  But now that his head was a bit clearer, he knew that, considering the way he’d spooked her that afternoon, he needed to watch his step.
    Keeping his eyes carefully trained on her face, Hardy spoke.  “I wanted to bring your pictures by.”
    As if noticing for the first time that Hardy held something, Miracle’s eyes dropped to his hands and her lips curved into a smile.
    “Oh.  Thank you.”
    She reached for them, but Hardy held them away from her grasp.  “There was something I wanted to ask you.” 
    Miracle looked like a skittish colt—slightly distrusting and ready to bolt. “O-kay.”
    “I developed your last roll.”
    Blood rushed back into Miracle’s cheeks and she lowered her eyes.  “That’s not a question.” 
    Hardy wondered if she hadn’t intended for him to see that she’d photographed him.  Was she embarrassed?  Or had she seen something that made her uncomfortable?  Had she seen too much?  There was only one way to find out. 
    Pulling one image out, Hardy held it up and asked, “What do you see?”
    The picture was of Hardy in profile. He remembered that he’d been staring at an artist, a painter specifically, who’d set up his canvas on the other side of the park.  He was just then getting out his paints and brushes.  Although he had yet to begin painting, tranquility and happiness radiated from him in waves that Hardy had no trouble perceiving, even from such a distance. 
    Miracle looked at the picture and then met Hardy’s eyes.  “I see someone who is afraid of giving up the only dream that will make him happy because he’s too busy doing what everyone else wants him to do.”
    And she was right.  Hardy had been envious of the painter’s simple pursuit of his passion.  Very envious.  In that moment, he’d wished his life could be so clear cut, his passion so unopposed.
    He hadn’t realized that his face so truly reflected his thoughts in that brief moment in time.  But it had.  And Mercy had caught it on film.  Perfectly.
    Sliding that picture back into the pile, Hardy pulled out another.  “And this one?”
    Miracle studied it briefly.  “You look…content.  Happy.  Like your heart is bursting.”
    Hardy remembered the moment precisely.  That’s exactly what he had felt—as though his heart was bursting.  Even looking at the image of it, he could feel the swelling of emotion in his chest.
    Just before she’d clicked the shutter, Hardy had been watching Miracle’s face glow after she photographed a single rose petal that had somehow made its way into the center of a sunny spot in the park.  There were no flowers within sight.  It was as though the petal had been planted there just for her enjoyment.  And she did enjoy it.  After she took a single snapshot of it, she’d picked it up and held it to her nose, inhaling so deeply it seemed she thought she might be able to absorb it.  She’d carried it with her most of the morning, sniffing it occasionally.  Without thought.
    As Hardy had watched her enjoy that rose petal, he’d been struck once more by how amazing she was, how she appreciated things in a way he’d never been exposed to before.  He was in awe of her and found himself anxiously awaiting the next thing that would capture her attention.  He thought he’d be happy to just be with her.  All the time.  Just