“Thank you, come again,” barked the old man as I pushed my way out of his pawn shop.

Standing outside, facing the busy London street, I reached into the cheap plastic bag and pulled out the 1960’s NIKON body camera. It was the weight of a brick and covered with scuff marks. I peeked through the view finder to see the once bright street now in a blue retro tint. I was amazed! I began taking pictures of everything: buildings, taxis, people buying their morning coffee. I zoomed in on one individual. She was tall, lean and had strawberry blonde hair. She wore thick, green glasses, and she was carrying a copy of Little Women in her hand. I snapped a few shots of her before beginning my journey back to my apartment. I took a few more pictures on my way home; ordinary things like my mailbox, a streetlight, and random strangers as they passed.

Once inside the comfort of my flat, I pulled the antique camera out again. As I flipped though the pictures I had taken that day, I noticed something rather bizarre. Just above the image of the women I had seen, were words written in white. I didn’t remember there being words in the background. I looked closer, trying to make out what was said.

“I cheated on my boyfriend,” I whispered aloud.

Confusion filled my face. Quickly, I clicked to the next photo.

“He’s not the father,” I read.

I’m not quite sure what compelled me to take the next picture, but I did. I stood up and walked to my mirror and snapped a photo of myself. Hesitantly, I looked. There it was. Right there above my head. My deepest, darkest secret.