Who was she looking at when the camera clicked? Her lips gently smiling, some buttons undone. What had happened in between that had turned her into the insecure woman she had become, nervously touching her hair to control invisible wisps.
That photograph spoke of dreams dissipated, passion evaporated and confidence eroded when you looked now, at her threadbare apron, her worn shoes, her bitten nails.
The frown now a furrow on her brow and yet– if you peeped through the keyhole of her kitchen door, for a second, you’d catch a glimpse of a childlike anticipation in her fiery eyes.