“The Man Who Never Smiled in Photos”

I first noticed it on our second date.

We were standing under a golden streetlamp after dinner—warm air, faint jazz from the café behind us, and the soft click of my phone camera capturing the moment. I smiled. He didn’t. Not even a twitch.

“Smile,” I teased, nudging his arm.

“I am,” he replied. But he wasn’t.

At first, I thought it was just his thing. Some people didn’t like photos. Some people were camera shy. But over the next few weeks, it became... unsettling.

Every picture I took, every snap from a party, walk, or lazy Sunday morning, he stared blankly into the lens. Calm, still, even handsome—but never smiling.

I was falling for him fast. His name was Elias. He was charming in a quiet, deliberate way. The kind of man who paid attention, who remembered the name of my dog that passed away when I was eight, who brought me peppermint tea when I was sick instead of coffee, because he “just had a feeling.”

And yet—he was a mystery I couldn’t solve. I once asked him about his family. He told me they were “gone.” When I pressed, he just said, “It's better that way.”

Normally, I would’ve walked away. But there was something magnetic about him. Something that pulled me closer even as warning bells rang in the distance.

One night, after three months together, I made a stupid mistake: I snooped.

He was in the shower. His phone was unlocked on the nightstand, buzzing with a message from someone saved as “R.” The message read:

“Still haven’t told her? You promised you would.”

My heart sank.

When he came out, I was already holding his phone.

“Who’s R?” I asked.

His jaw clenched. “No one.”

“Don’t lie.”

He stared at me—long, unreadable—and finally said, “If I tell you, you’ll leave.”

“Maybe. But not telling me guarantees I will.”

He took a breath. “Fine. Sit down.”

What he told me didn’t make sense at first. He said he had been in witness protection. That years ago, his real name was Nicholas Hale. That he had testified against someone—he wouldn’t say who. He said the photos mattered because someone might recognize him.

It sounded plausible. It explained the lack of online presence, the missing family, the reserved nature. But it didn’t explain the fear in his eyes. It didn’t explain the cold sweat that formed on his temples when I showed him a group photo I had uploaded to Instagram a week ago.

“They’ll find me,” he whispered, deleting it from my feed with shaking hands. “They watch everything.”

It became paranoia. Or maybe it always had been. He started avoiding mirrors. He kept the curtains closed. He flinched at sudden camera flashes.

I should’ve left then. But I didn’t.

Because I had already fallen too deep.

Then came the night I found the photo album.

It was tucked in a drawer in the guest bedroom, under piles of old winter clothes. The pictures were old—sepia-toned, creased. There were photos of a woman with dark curls. A child—maybe five years old. Elias stood beside them in every one. His eyes were the same. But in these photos... he was smiling.

Smiling beautifully.

Until the last page.

The final photo was of the same woman and child—but their faces were blacked out with marker. And Elias—no, Nicholas—stood alone in front of a burning house.

Smiling.

That night, I didn’t sleep.

He came home late. When I confronted him, he didn’t deny it.

“Why are their faces scratched out?” I asked.

He sat down. “Because I don’t want to remember what I did to them.”

My blood ran cold.

“I thought I was protecting them,” he said softly. “From him. From the man I used to work for. But in the end, he found them. And I wasn’t there.”

He looked up at me, eyes hollow. “I don’t smile in photos anymore because I don’t deserve to.”

I backed away slowly. I didn’t say a word. I packed a small bag that night while he sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing. When I left, he didn’t stop me.

A week later, he disappeared. His phone number stopped working. His apartment was cleared out. I never saw him again.

But I still have the photos.

Every now and then, I look at them—the man who never smiled. I try to remember what was real. Was he truly broken by guilt? Or was it a mask, a lie, wrapped in another lie?

Sometimes, when I dream, I see him.

And in those dreams—he’s smiling.

But not at me.

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