I watched the blond boy, amused as he scowled into his cup of coffee. I’d caught him lingering outside on the front steps a few minutes earlier and purposely left the door open. He’d grumbled about letting in bugs and trudged in behind me. I shuffled some pamphlets on the counter and yawned.

“You moving?” he asked, staring at the rest of the café; I’d stacked all the chairs on the tables and covered the couch seats with a plastic tablecloth.

“I’m going back in two days,” I said, stirring some milk into my own coffee. “School starts soon.” The blond snorted, but he didn’t sound surprised. Quickly, he drained the rest of his cup and began to head for the door. I grasped his arm and pulled him back.

“What?” The gruffness of his voice didn’t reach his eyes.

“Take a picture with me,” I said, digging out my instant camera from the mess on one of the tables.

“Why?” the blond asked, sounding a little displeased.

“I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” I had meant to sound honest, but my statement it came across as depressing. He frowned, and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Don’t frown,” I said, setting my camera on the counter. I fiddled with the timer for a few seconds before I dragged the blond in front of the camera. There was a slightly awkward distance between us, and we both moved closer at the same time.

“I hate photos,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed. The flash of the camera startled us; I’d lost track of the seconds ticking down. I took the photo from the camera and laughed. It had captured the blond with his mouth open, his eyes half closed and his arms crossed; his stance reminded me of the frumpy mother-in-laws in dramas.

“Give me that,” he demanded, holding out his hand for the photo. I stuck out my tongue at him and stuck it in my pocket.

“I’ll save that for blackmail when you’re famous,” I teased, before I reset my camera. This time, I pulled the blond boy in for a hug. He consented after an apprehensive look.

“Thank you,” I said, after we had taken the last photo. I handed him a couple and he chuckled at our expressions.

“My eyes look very nice,” he noted dryly, a wry smirk twisting his mouth. I glanced down at the photos in my hand and saw that his scar shone white. Hesitantly, I traced his face on a photo and glanced up at him. For the first time, he didn’t seem bitter.

“Will you sign it?” I asked, searching for a pen in my pockets. I pulled out a random photo and pushed a pen toward him. He didn’t ask me why; he simply signed his name and gave the photo and pen back to me.

“Now, you need to sign mine,” the blond said, and I did. He studied my signature before he cautiously tucked the photos into his bag.

“Does he know you’re leaving?” The question came out of the blue, but his expression told me he had wanted to ask for quite a while.

“Yes,” I said, fidgeting with my necklace.

“What are you to him?” he asked, noticing my small movements. I considered his question.

“I don’t know,” I said, and I frowned a little.

“I hope you find out soon,” he told me, his hand on the handle. “Bye for now.” His last statement warned me to remember him, and I smiled at his sarcastic tone.

The tinkle of the bell had always comforted me, but now, it seemed to signal a flood of departures rather than the welcomes I had previously associated it with.