Cameron had always prided herself on being emotionally detached. People were interchangeable, experiences fleeting. She had built a life around that understanding, letting lovers slip through her fingers like grains of sand, forgetting their names before the door even shut behind them.
It was easy.
Until Jasmine.
The realization came in quiet moments. At first, it was just a name in her head, looping like a song that wouldn't stop playing. Then came the flashbacks—too sharp to ignore. Jasmine's laughter echoing across the office, the warmth of her hand brushing against Cameron's, the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled like she meant it. These weren't just memories. They were ghosts.
Cameron wasn't just remembering Jasmine.
She was haunted.
And it wasn't fair. It shouldn't have hurt this much, not for someone she only knew for two weeks. That was the most humiliating part. She had flings longer than that. Situationships that dragged on for months with half the emotional weight. But Jasmine had gotten in before Cameron even knew she'd left the door open.
She stared at her phone too often now, thumbing through old messages they exchanged during training—dry notes about schedules and procedures that she reread like they were love letters. One afternoon, her phone slipped from her hand mid-scroll, landing face-down on the floor.
She didn't pick it up.
Instead, she stared at the ceiling, fingers twitching like they missed something. Someone.
At her new job, people barely registered. She didn't bother learning anyone's names. The woman training her was probably kind. Probably sweet. But Cameron couldn't be bothered to look her in the eye long enough to find out. Even when the new trainer complimented her shoes or offered her a coffee, Cameron gave the same nod and forced smirk. Her mind was always elsewhere. Always rerouting back to Jasmine.
One day, she caught a scent on the elevator—lavender, barely-there vanilla. Her whole body went still. She turned, heart racing, thinking maybe—maybe—
But it wasn't her.
It never was.
And that was the sickest part of it. Jasmine hadn't died. She was out there, probably thriving, probably laughing at something new. Cameron's obsession wasn't mourning a loss. It was mourning a connection that had never really existed.
That weekend, she tried to prove something to herself. She reached out to an old flame—someone she knew would come running with just one text. Carey. Reliable, flirty, casually toxic. The perfect distraction.
They met at a bar Cameron used to frequent, the kind of place that always smelled like stale beer and desperation. Carey greeted her with a kiss to the cheek and that cocky smirk she used to find endearing.
"You look like hell," Carey said, teasing, sliding her a shot without asking.
"Been a long week," Cameron lied.
She drank like she used to, fast and hollow. Carey was already pressed close by the second round, hand on her thigh, voice low and familiar. Everything was technically perfect. But every time Carey leaned in, Cameron pulled away just a fraction. And when they finally got back to her apartment, stripped down to skin and sweat and intention, all Cameron could think about was the way Jasmine's fingers had tapped against her coffee cup during breaks. The way she tilted her head when she listened. The way she said Cameron's name like it was something soft.
She couldn't do it.
Cameron froze halfway through, staring at the ceiling while Carey's hands wandered.
"I can't," she muttered, barely audible.
Carey pulled back. "Seriously?"
Cameron sat up, reaching for her shirt, not meeting her eyes. "Yeah. Sorry."
Carey sighed dramatically, flopping back onto the bed like a spurned actress. "You call me over, get me worked up, and then—what? You change your mind?"
"I said I'm sorry."
"That doesn't mean anything when you're always like this, Cam. You're a fucking head case."
Cameron didn't respond. She just grabbed a bottle from the nightstand, unscrewed it, and took a long swig. The whiskey burned her throat. It didn't help.
When Carey finally left—slamming the door behind her like she meant it—Cameron didn't move. She lay on her side, still half-dressed, staring at the spot on the wall where the paint peeled in a perfect, jagged circle. She traced it with her eyes like it was the only thing keeping her tethered to the moment.
She hadn't cried. She didn't want to give her feelings that kind of satisfaction.
But the hollowness was louder than tears anyway.
For the next few days, she didn't bother doing much of anything. The fridge was empty. Her inbox at work is filled with unread messages. Her voicemail light blinked, probably her boss, probably Cheyenne, probably someone trying to check in with a kindness Cameron no longer trusted.
She couldn't feel anything real anymore. Only the aftershocks of something that wasn't even hers to lose.
Love. Obsession. Infatuation. Addiction. She didn't know the difference anymore. They all felt the same in her chest.
On Wednesday, she opened her phone to delete Jasmine's contact from the office chat, but stopped short. Her finger hovered over the screen, trembling slightly.
Then, slowly, she backed out of the chat.
She couldn't delete her.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
She wasn't ready to let the ghost go.