Jennings looked at him, his expression hard. He knew this was more than just a longing for someone who was gone. This was a search for himself, a search for meaning in the chaos that this girl's death had left. He could have said again that it was all just a photograph, that Peter had simply fallen in love with the image. But he knew that wouldn't help.
"If you can't forget her, Peter, why don't you take this picture from me? I'll give it to you for free. You think it has some meaning. You want to hold it, look at it over and over again, search for answers in that look. So why don't you take it? Maybe that way you can forget, if you look at it on your desk and not just in your head."
Peter was silent. Those same thoughts he couldn't get rid of started to run through his head again. He felt the anxiety growing inside him, a weight hanging on his chest, making it hard to catch his breath. But he couldn't just take the photo and give it to that empty feeling. He was looking for answers - not in the picture, not in the girl's eyes. He was looking inside himself.
Jennings, noticing the silence, spoke again, holding back his irritation but trying to remain calm.
"Peter, can't you hear me? I said I'd give it away. You want it, take it." He paused, then added, with a hint of mockery in his voice, "It's not like you're going to buy it at auction. You're fixated on this picture, and it's just a job. The model, the light, the lens - everything."
Peter stood before the photograph, his vision clouded. He could almost feel the weight of this overwhelming feeling on his chest, the desire to hold the photograph in his hands at odds with his inner fear. The fear of being pulled back into that emptiness, into that silent question in her eyes, over and over again.
"You don't understand, Jennings..." His voice was so quiet it could barely be heard. He took a step toward the photograph, but then suddenly stopped, as if the very act of approaching it might cause irreversible consequences. "I can't just take it. I... I can't keep it in my house.
Jennings, with a frown on his face, didn't immediately understand what Peter meant. He raised an eyebrow, his eyes becoming more penetrating, trying to catch the essence of what Peter was hiding.
"Why?" he asked, calmly, but with a hint of growing bewilderment. "What's the problem? If you want it, take it. I told you it was free."
Peter felt the nervous tremors creeping through his body again. He tried to find the words, but they wouldn't come. He knew his explanation would be inappropriate, that Jennings wouldn't understand, but he tried anyway.
"If I take her," he said with obvious effort, "I'll see her eyes every day, every minute. And... and I'll ask myself over and over again what she wanted to tell me. I'll turn her gaze over and over in my head, like a prisoner. She'll be there, in my room, and I... I'll go crazy, Jennings. I can't live with it.
Jennings frowned, listening intently, but his expression was rather skeptical. He stepped toward Peter, clapping him on the shoulder with a hint of mockery.
"You're exaggerating, Peter. Can she really talk to you through a photograph? You know she's just an actress. Just a model for a photo. It's just a job, not some mystical cult. You're overreacting. It's not that big of a tragedy that she died. It doesn't change what you see in the picture."
But Peter couldn't contain his inner tension. His gaze was hard and his voice was full of despair.
"No, you don't understand!" he exclaimed, almost shouting. "You don't know what goes on in my head when I look at her. She's not just a photo, not just a model. I can't forget her, I can't just leave her, as you say, "work". I feel her gaze piercing me, and the more I look, the more she becomes a part of my life. I can't take her, because if I do, she will become a part of me, like a disease. And I will miss her, think about her. As if she lives in my house, will watch my every step, ask her silent questions."
Jennings stood there, confused, his expression growing serious. He seemed to realize that Peter was serious, but he still couldn't quite understand what was driving him. He was a photographer, and to him, pictures were just snapshots, results of work that could be discarded, forgotten, and started over again with a clean slate. But Peter... Peter was different.
Peter stood by the window, his gaze directed nowhere, his whole body compressed in some internal struggle. He felt something inside him collapsing, like an unbearable weight growing with each glance at the photograph. He could no longer look at her. He could no longer perceive her gaze as something external, alien. This picture had ceased to be just a photograph - for him, she had become a living being. And each of her silent words echoed in his head.
And then, when he couldn't take it anymore, when the feeling of despair became simply unbearable, he turned around and covered his face with his hands. His whole body suddenly shook with sobs, and no force in the world could hold him back. He felt how everything inside him suddenly collapsed, and he didn't want to hold back any longer.
Jennings didn't know what to do when he saw him. He was never good at comforting, especially when he didn't understand what was going on. He walked over to Peter and put his hand on his shoulder, trying to distract him somehow, to make him feel like everything was going to be okay. But what could he say at a time like this?
"Peter..." his voice was quiet, but there was not only confusion in it, but also some sympathy. "I don't understand what's happening to you. It's just a photo. I'm sorry, I can't help you if you don't want to help yourself."
But Peter only shook with tears, unable to answer. His whole being was filled with this longing, this awareness that he could not bring her back, could not answer her silent question. With each passing moment his pain grew stronger, and his consciousness slipped further and further from reality, leaving him with this empty, meaningless question to which he did not know the answer.
"She's dead, Jennings..." Peter breathed out, breaking off his crying. "She's dead, and I can't... I can't help her... I can't do anything! But her eyes... her eyes... they're looking for an answer. And I can't just walk away from this. I can't forget her! How can I forget her if she's looking at me? If she's asking me?!"
Jennings stood there, feeling his helplessness begin to spread throughout his body. He kept trying to find the right words to help Peter. But what could a person who hadn't been in this much pain say? He was a photographer, and Peter was just a kid, confused in his head, in his perception of this photograph.
"Peter," he repeated softly, "so are you going to take her photo with you or not?"
Peter didn't answer right away. His body continued to shake with tears, and his gaze still didn't leave the photograph. It was as if he was searching for an answer in those eyes, as if the photograph itself could tell him something. He clenched his fists, as if he wanted to control himself, but the tears continued to flow despite his efforts.
"No..." Peter finally whispered, his voice almost inaudible.
He looked up at Jennings, and there was such pain in his eyes that Jennings froze for a moment.
"Why?" Jennings was surprised and worried, but tried not to show it. "Why can't you take her?"
Peter continued to stare at the photograph, his lips trembling and his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He didn't know how to explain. There was no clear answer in his head. Pain and fear merged into something unbearable.
"Because..." Peter continued with difficulty. "If I take her, she will always be with me. And I will look at her again and again... And each time it will seem that she asks me what happened to her. And I will not be able to answer. And it will be like a shadow that will not let me go."
Jennings felt Peter's breathing hard. He didn't know what to say. His experience, his professional view of things, couldn't help here. He was a photographer, and Peter was a person who had experienced something deep and personal. And this picture was much more than just an image.
"You think that if you take her, she'll stay with you forever?" Jennings said, still trying to figure out what was going on in the boy's head. "But you have to understand that she's not alive. She's just an image. You have to let her go, Peter."
Peter turned away from the photo abruptly, unable to look at it any longer. He felt his chest tighten with pain again, with the knowledge that he could not rid himself of this image that had become part of his life. He felt her silent gaze penetrating him, and with each passing moment he felt he could neither walk away nor leave her. It was excruciating, as if a part of his very soul was tied to this photograph.
"I can't, Jennings. I can't just let it go. I can't just be an ordinary viewer who looks at a photograph and forgets about it. It's impossible. I can't do it."
Jennings took a step forward and put his hand on Peter's shoulder, trying to calm him down somehow.
"You don't have to be her friend, Peter. You don't have to save her. You can't bring her back. You have to forget her. Or is that so hard for you?" Jennings repeated, his voice quiet but firm, and there was a hint of concern in it, as well as irritation.
Peter felt like those words, however they were said, had awakened something deep within him. His whole world seemed to cease to exist at that moment. All the terror and fear he had felt seemed almost absurd, but they would not leave him. He stood before Jennings, who was speaking to him as if he were a normal person, but inside Peter's head there was chaos.
"I... I can't, Jennings," he whispered, without raising his head. His voice was a confession, full of helplessness. "I can't forget her. You don't understand how... how hard it is. This isn't just a photograph. This isn't just a snapshot. This is part of me now. She's like a shadow in my head, and every time I think about her, I feel like... like I have to do something. I have to answer her question. And I can't, and it's killing me."
Jennings stood still, listening intently, his expression gradually softening. He already knew that Peter was going through something much bigger than just a passion for photography. But what could he do? He was a photographer, and his world had always been clear and calculated. People, models, scenes-all part of the job. But Peter was different. He was a man who couldn't let go of his emotional baggage.
"I know this is hard for you," Jennings said finally, his voice softer but still guarded. "But you have to understand one thing, Peter. You can't save everyone. And you especially can't save her. She doesn't need you to save her. She's... not here anymore."
Peter's head snapped up, and something strange flashed in his eyes-a mixture of anger and despair.
"I don't want to save her, Jennings," Peter said, his voice growing furious, almost shrill, in a way that sounded completely out of keeping with his age.
He clenched his fists, standing as if he was about to burst out, his gaze intense and determined.
Jennings watched him with narrowed eyes, growing concerned. His face remained calm, but Peter's words had struck him hard, because despite his practicality, he couldn't understand what was driving this boy. Peter's internal conflict didn't fit into the usual framework, and Jennings felt helpless in the face of this storm of emotions.
"What do you want then, Peter?" he asked quietly, but his voice was cold, with a hint of irritation. "You say you don't want to save her, but what do you want then? What do you expect from this photograph? Why do you need all this?"
Peter stood motionless, his gaze riveted on the photograph on the wall. He couldn't take his eyes off it-the girl on the cover of the movie, with that strange, innocent, yet disturbing look in her eyes. And the longer he looked at it, the more he felt his inner struggle heating up, as the question she seemed to be asking demanded an answer. But what was this question? Why did he feel he had to find an answer to it?
He exhaled, almost regretfully. Peter was no longer crying, but his face remained tense and pale, as if all his strength had gone into this silence, which was drawing more and more questions along with it.
"I... I don't know," he said, his voice quiet, uncertain. He looked down, away from the photograph. "I can't explain it. I can't just forget her, like you say. I can't just leave her here, in this picture, and walk away. I feel like if I do, I'll... I'll lose something important. I can't put my finger on it, but it's there, Jennings. I can't explain how I feel."
Jennings stood next to him, looking at Peter with some sympathy, but also a little disappointment. He still couldn't figure out what the boy wanted from this situation. Jennings was used to things having their own clear boundaries, their own clarity. In his world, everything was clear: the stage, the camera, the lights, the model. Anything outside of that seemed superfluous.
"You're trying to make sense of something that doesn't exist, Peter," he said, sounding a little tired. "It's just a photo. It's just a girl. It's just a job. You don't know her, you've never been with her. You can't expect that photo to give you an answer to anything important in your life. You shouldn't."
Peter shook his head, as if he hadn't heard Jennings's words, as if his mind was already too far removed from what the adult was saying. He looked at the photograph again, and again felt his heart tighten. There was silence in her eyes, but that silence screamed, and Peter couldn't ignore it.
"I don't know, Jennings," he said quietly, still staring at the photograph. "I can't just let it go. She's like... like a part of me now. I don't know why, but when I look at her, I feel like her eyes are telling me something important. It's like she's... like she's searching for an answer, and I can't give it to her. I can't forget her, no matter how hard I try."
Jennings sighed, feeling his patience begin to wear thin. He was a photographer, and there was precision in his world. A picture was just a picture. He couldn't understand how this photograph could have affected Peter so deeply. But apparently it wasn't that simple. It wasn't just a hobby. It was something more.
"Peter, you're creating your own problem," Jennings said, his voice soft but firm. He came closer, almost standing next to the boy but not touching him. "You're giving those eyes meaning that isn't there. It's nothing more than a photograph. You just can't handle the fact that you can't be with her, hold her hand, talk to her about little things, and laugh with her at the stupidities of life.
Peter turned sharply to Jennings. His face was tense and there was pain in his eyes, as if these words were tearing him apart from the inside. He couldn't find the words to respond, because he didn't know what he was feeling. All these emotions raging in his chest couldn't be put into simple phrases, and he felt like Jennings would never understand.
"You don't understand," he said at last, dropping his voice to a half-whisper, as if afraid his words might be overheard by someone else. "You don't understand how I feel, Jennings. This isn't just a photograph. This isn't just a girl in a picture. She's... she's alive. She... she sees me. And I can't just forget her. I can't, you know?"
Jennings took a deep breath in response. He knew that Peter's words were not coming from mere infatuation. He knew that this was a man who was going through an internal crisis. Jennings had always looked at things rationally, orderly, but here everything was confused, chaotic. He tried to find some simple solution, but none came.
"Do you really think she lives in that picture?" Jennings asked, his voice softer, almost sympathetic. He leaned a little closer, as if trying to understand what was happening to this boy. "Peter, you have to understand. It's just an image, it's all art. You can't transfer your emotions to a picture. She can't see you, she can't understand you, she can't talk to you. You can't talk to her because she's not there. Do you understand that?"
Peter turned away, trying to hide the tears that seemed to refuse to subside. He couldn't afford to be weak, couldn't let Jennings see how hard this was for him. But when his gaze fell on the girl's photograph again, everything inside him tightened painfully, as if every corner of his soul was begging for release.
Then Jennings suddenly, as if out of nowhere, began to speak with a venomous tone in his voice that Peter could not help but notice.
"Oh, of course," he said with a smile that had nothing to do with warmth. "I guess real girls don't want to be with you, huh? So you look for love in pictures of dead models. It's much easier, right? There are no rejections, no disappointments, no pain.
Peter's head snapped up, his tear-filled eyes shooting Jennings a look that could have been called deadly if it weren't for the fact that there was more bitterness in it than anger.
"Are you... are you completely crazy?" His voice was shaking, but he held himself back, fighting each word that seemed to come out through clenched teeth. "You don't understand! It's not what you think!"
Jennings didn't look away, and his lips stretched into a sly smile.
"Come on, don't make excuses, Peter," he said sarcastically, narrowing his eyes. "I know you want to be with girls, but they don't want to be with you. So you look for your ideal in photographs... and dead people."
Peter winced as if he had been struck. The words seemed to have torn apart the invisible shell he had worked so hard to build around himself. He looked up, and his eyes reflected not only pain, but also resentment.
"You don't understand, Jennings," he whispered, clenching his jaw. "This isn't about perfection. You don't see what's really going on. I'm not looking for her for perfection. I don't just want to be with her. I... I don't know what I want. But I can't let her go!"
He took a step toward the photograph, but froze again, as if the photograph itself were an obstacle preventing him from moving forward. He raised his hand, but never touched the paper, instead returning to his empty gaze, staring into space.
Jennings watched him, holding back some irritation, but his face was increasingly filled with compassion. He took a step forward and, folding his arms across his chest, said with a clear hint of pity:
"You're just feeding yourself ideas, Peter," Jennings continued, his voice growing increasingly irritated. "Look, you can find someone real if you're just open. You're a real person. And that girl's dead. You see? She's not coming back. And you're standing in front of her picture, messing with my head when I should be working."
Peter felt Jennings's words pierce him, but he couldn't respond. He wanted to answer, but his voice caught in his throat, as if the air itself had become heavy and irresistible. He looked at the photograph, at those eyes that seemed so alive, so full of some unspoken meaning. He tried to understand what was holding him back, but he couldn't.
"You don't understand, Jennings," he said quietly, almost whispering, looking at the photo. "I can't just forget. When I look at her... I feel like her gaze was penetrating me. I can't just believe that she's gone. I can't just forget the way she looked at me. The way she asked me something important that I couldn't understand."
Jennings was obviously tired of the whole situation. He took a step forward and, looking at Peter with a desperate expression, sighed.
"Do you really believe that, Peter? Do you think her eyes tell you anything more than what they wanted to show on the cover? You've created a whole story for yourself. You see her as if she's alive, but in reality, she's just a picture. She can't ask you questions because she's dead. You made it all up."
Peter felt his internal struggle rising again, anxiety tightening in his chest. He clenched his fists, trying to hold himself together, but he couldn't stop himself from speaking.
"She... she's touched my soul, Jennings. I can't... I can't just forget her. She... she's important to me, you don't understand!"
Jennings, standing opposite, shook his head, his face contorted with fatigue and irritation.
"Are you crazy, Peter? How much longer can you listen to this nonsense?! I'm sick of it! You've got some kind of crap in your head, but that's enough. Do you understand? That's enough!" He took a sharp step forward, not giving Peter a chance to continue.
With that, Jennings tore the photograph off the wall, ignoring the boy's reaction. He yanked it so hard that the frame almost flew out of his hands. His gesture was quick and decisive, as if he needed to get rid of it all as quickly as possible. The photograph was already in his hands, and he thrust it forcefully at Peter.
"Take it, if it's so important to you!" Jennings said, his voice breaking with irritation. "Maybe you'll calm down if you keep the damn picture!"
Peter froze. Panic was in his eyes. He didn't want to take the photo, but he couldn't take his eyes off the image of the girl. When Jennings thrust the photo into his hands, his body seemed to freeze, unsure of how to react. He couldn't figure out what he was feeling. Something in his chest tightened, and he instinctively took a step back.
His hands seemed to be unable to obey him, and the photograph, like an unknown bomb, slipped from his fingers. It hit the wooden surface quietly, and Peter froze. He did not move, did not try to pick it up. His whole body seemed to have turned to stone at that moment, and his gaze was directed not at the photograph itself, but at the emptiness that suddenly opened up before him.
When the photo turned over and showed its other side - pure whiteness with no images, no faces, no eyes of the girl - Peter felt his tension gradually fading. Something about this simple, lifeless background brought a strange calm to his soul, as if this whole world with the photo suddenly became unimportant, and his own fears and worries lost their meaning.
He stood there, staring at the empty white surface, his breathing slowing. Jennings's words, his reproaches and requests, disappeared against the backdrop of this sensation. For a moment, Peter felt the internal noise disappear, and the world became simple, clear, as if everything had suddenly fallen into place.
Jennings stood silently, watching Peter, who could not tear his eyes away from the photograph lying on the floor, white side up. It looked strange, as if the boy felt some invisible burden that was suddenly gone. Gradually, like a fog, the tension and anxiety began to disappear from his face. Before, he had looked at the girl's picture as if she were a living being, looking at him, asking questions. But now something had changed. He no longer saw those eyes, no longer felt that silent question.
Peter stood there, as if freed from the weight that had been weighing on him as he tried to make sense of the image, of his feelings, of the fact that this girl remained in him despite her death. And now, looking at the blank white side of the photograph, the boy seemed to feel that he no longer had to answer the questions he had created for himself. She was no longer watching him, no longer demanding anything from him.
Jennings saw this change in Peter, a small but important one. The boy's face had smoothed out, his expression had become calmer, and now there was something like relief in it. It was like a release. He was no longer connected to what was happening in the photograph. Or even to the image of the girl herself. He realized that she was gone, and this moment became, for him, essentially the end of some pain that had been hanging in his soul.
Jennings realized that with this step, Peter had realized something. The boy was ready to let go, and that was important. The pain, the anxiety, all the dark thoughts that had accompanied him until now seemed to begin to disappear, dissolving into this empty, clean space. There was something therapeutic about it, as if Peter had suddenly found a way to come back to himself and let go of everything that was holding him in place.
He did not interfere with this release. He simply knelt down silently, slowly, as if respecting the moment. He picked up the photograph from the floor, and despite the gravity of the situation, he did so with caution, as if it could still cause pain. The boy stood nearby, did not look at him, did not interfere with the process.
As soon as the photograph disappeared into the drawer, the room became as quiet as if the last clod of earth had just been thrown onto the coffin of the deceased. The air seemed lighter, as if something heavy had left the room that had been hanging over them for days and nights. Peter stood motionless, as if trying to comprehend what had happened. The anxiety that he had not been able to recognize before had now subsided, and in its place there was emptiness, but the emptiness was not so painful. It was a relief, like after a long, hard cough, when the air seems fresh again.
Peter stood at the table, looking into its empty space, and felt his chest fill with air. He whispered softly:
"I feel better..."
The words came out of nowhere, unconsciously. He was surprised by their sincerity. He turned to Jennings, and his eyes no longer held the same horror that had tormented him so recently. He saw the photographer standing by the window, listening to the silence, as if he himself felt the emptiness in the room smooth out a little.
"Are you really feeling better?" Jennings asked, his voice quiet but with a hint of caution.
He didn't know how all this would affect Peter, but it was an important moment. The boy was still too silent, and Jennings didn't want to disturb his thoughts.
Peter nodded slowly, but it wasn't just agreement. It was a statement, as if he himself had just realized that he was finding his way back to himself, that something in his life had finally stopped being distorted and confused and meaningless.
"Yes..." Peter whispered again, not looking at Jennings. "I... can't feel her anymore. She's... gone."
He could have continued, but the words wouldn't come. At some point, he realized that there was no need to explain anymore. There was no need to look for excuses or label his feelings. Everything was too complicated and too simple at the same time.
Jennings walked up to him and put his hand on his shoulder. It was a supportive gesture, without words. He knew that Peter had just been through something painful, that he might still have to deal with the aftermath. But now, in this room, at this point, there was just a moment of silence. A moment when everything wasn't so loud, not so scary.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, Peter," Jennings said, his voice low but kind. "It's a really unhealthy topic."
Peter, still standing at the table, did not answer right away. He felt that at this moment he needed more time to digest everything that had happened and to understand what he should do now. Jennings watched him, but did not interfere, knowing that Peter needed time.
"You know," Peter finally said, without turning to Jennings, "I didn't know I'd be so moved by that photo. At first, I just saw a pretty girl on the wall. But then..."
Jennings waited silently, without interrupting. Peter continued to stand, his back slightly bent, his hands in his pockets, as if trying to hold on to something that might burst out.
"I don't know what happened to me," Peter continued, his voice shaking but still speaking. "It's like... like I suddenly met my love."
Jennings stood silently, watching Peter. He knew the boy was going through something deep, but he didn't know how to explain it. Every now and then he saw people who were lost in their feelings, like Peter was now. But this was special, and even though it wasn't the first time Jennings had seen it, it still bothered him.
"Are you sure this is love, Peter?" he asked finally, his voice quiet but determined. "Are you sure this is what you feel? Because love... it doesn't happen in pictures. It happens in real life, between real people.
Peter winced, but did not answer right away. He felt his chest tightening and his thoughts running chaotically in different directions, like an uncontrollable stream of water.
"I don't know," he said quietly, looking back at the blank wall. "I just thought I saw her... that she was there, and I wasn't lonely. And then, when I looked at the photo... I thought I suddenly realized that she could be mine. Or at least part of something... real."
Jennings frowned. His experience told him that Peter was going through something deeper than just an obsession with photography. It was something that was pulling at him from within, as if he were trying to fill an emptiness with something that couldn't be filled. But how could he explain it to himself? How could he help this boy sort out his feelings?