A few weeks after Steve's unexpected reappearance back into Diana's life, she'd come across one of those throwback instant film cameras in a store. Several, actually, all different brands that produced approximately the same size mini photo.
She'd bought one on an impulse, and he'd found it trying to unload bags, eyes going wide at the new thing that wasn't exactly new. It was love at the first press of the button, that trial photo that wound up being more of their kitchen cabinets than of her the first to be clipped to the fridge.
A little over a month later, and it was getting a bit crowded in some spaces.
Namely, the front of the fridge, the dresser mirror, and the cork board above the desk. But they were scattered everywhere they could be, in drawers, on tables, stuck into wallets and bags. The only place there probably should've been more was the album books they were actually meant to be in, which were sitting at the end of the couch, not even half full.
As she picked up from the floor another small photo that had dislodged from its clip when she pulled on the fridge door, Diana had half a mind to take it and several of its friends and put them in their intended place. Instead, she reattached the photo of a tree to its clip, giving it a little wiggle to check it was well stuck this time.
She really should have known this would happen. Guessed, at the very least.
Steve had taken pictures of everything, was still taking them. Trees, birds, buildings, she thought there might even be a few pictures of other pictures lying around someplace from when the hobby was new, the novelty fresh.
And there were a lot of pictures of her, smiling or posing or not paying attention at all. Less of them together, though she was working to change that, every so often taking the camera from him and turning it around so they'd both be in.
Sometimes it still felt like a dream, one she feared she'd wake up from any day now. But the pictures helped, physical reminders when they were apart that they had been given more time, another chance.
Maybe they were running a little low on display areas, yes, and eventually they would have to put some of them into the photo albums, but not now. She'd tack the dang things to the ceiling if she had to, but so long as she needed the reassurance, so long as he continued to light up like a sun every time a picture developed before his eyes, they would stay out in clear view, the whole apartment a dynamic photo album.