I used to be able to pose for jump shots.

Those were my favourite shots; lunging my body into the air against skylines of orange and magenta while he clicked away on his camera was something of a joy. I loved being his model; once the shot was taken and I landed back down on my own two feet, I would scamper to him and snatch the camera from him before he even got to admire his own creation.

But he never chided me.

Instead, he would fit his arms snugly into the curve of my waist and bury his head in my neck as I studied the picture. Sometimes I’d exclaim that it was a brilliant shot and turn to kiss him, but other times I’d say it didn’t come out well and would run back to my place to pose for him again.

But after the accident, I never modeled for him again.

The first time after I had been discharged from the hospital and he had tried to take his camera out, I had yelled at him and told him to “get that thing away from me!” Then I had started crying as I got my hands on everything and flung them about the house. In the huge mess of me yelling and wailing, he suddenly got to his knees and drew e into him, so that as I was against his chest and he slowly my brown flop of hair, my cries grew to quiet sobs and then finally they dissolved into nothing at all.

The camera never appeared again.

But there was one time, at the SkyPark. The SkyPark was a new attraction, built on the rooftop of a seventy three story building, the Tower Palace. He had insisted on bringing me there, because my therapist had said that I should take up new opportunities and visit new places.

So we had gone.

There were hundreds of people out there that day, kids with kites, teens with headphones chugged atop their skulls, couples cuddling up to each other, and even old grannies scented with lavender. There were all kinds of people, but no one else seated in a wheelchair and being miserably pushed around.

I lay silently in the device, oblivious to the different sights and sounds he had tried pointing out to me. To be honest, I was a terrible person. Ever since the accident he had continued caring for me and showering me with all the love I could have ever received. Every morning when I woke, I’d find him gazing at me with a kind of intense, quiet love, and it moved me to no end. He had sacrificed so much for me, but all I could do was be a grouch and demand him to sacrifice even more.

Just as I was feeling considerably guilty, a loud fanfare suddenly echoed throughout the park, and all at once, heads turned towards the source of the noise. A pair of newlyweds was blissfully making their way throughout the entrance of the park, the bride displaying two rows of pearly whites as she was carried by her husband.

Everyone watched as he set her down carefully on a grassy bit of the park, like she the only pearl in the world. Their photographer strolled to them, obviously pleased with all the attention they were getting.

“Alright, wedding photos everybody!” he declared in a sing-song voice.

I continued to watch, riveted as the couple posed for the camera. I could feel his eyes on them too, and together we quietly observed this couple so in love. They had about ten shots done when the photographer suddenly held up his pinkie to indicate that it would be the last picture.

With her hands clasped in his, they leaped off the ground, only to have the hem of the bride’s dress catch in the groom’s heel. Just as the bright flash of the camera blinked, the two of them screamed in unison as they descended back to the ground. But just as they tumbled onto the splash of green, the groom had secured his arms around his bride, acting as a cushion. As they recovered from the shock of the fall, they started laughing, their fingers tightly intertwined and their heads bent towards each other.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“Knowing that you’ll always have someone to break the fall for you.”

“It’s atrocious.”

“Why?”

“They fell because of a jump.”