Two years had passed since Cameron last saw Jasmine. And with time came distance—dulling the sharp edges of what once felt like an incurable obsession. Jasmine's name no longer made her flinch. It was just a syllable now. Hollow. Gutted of meaning.
But she hadn't healed.
She had simply stopped feeling.
Her life hadn't improved or collapsed. It just… continued. A slow drift through days stacked like cardboard. Routine coated everything in dust. She still worked in an office, different from the last but functionally identical—new faces, same script. Smile. Nod. Keep the mask on.
Cameron hadn't made any real connections at this job. She knew three people by name and two of them weren't even sure if Cameron worked full-time or freelance. That was exactly how she wanted it.
People left you alone if you made being alone look intentional.
Nights were the hardest. The moments between clocking out and unconsciousness always stretched the longest. She kept the lights low in her apartment, bathed in the soft static of a muted TV and half-drunk bottles of wine. The fridge was a graveyard of expired leftovers and forgotten groceries.
In the medicine cabinet: a prescription for Xanax along with various other substances.
She told her doctor she had anxiety. She left out the part about how the panic didn't hit her in waves—it was constant. A kind of low hum beneath her ribs, an engine she couldn't shut off. The pills helped quiet it. Helped keep the thoughts from clawing their way to the surface.
Helped her sleep without dreaming of Jasmine.
Sometimes she took them just to get through the evenings. Pop a pill, lie on the couch, let the hours slip like water down a drain. The numbness was a mercy.
It was better than the ache.
And then there was Caroline.
Caroline had come into her life the way most women did—through proximity and lowered standards. A woman at a gallery opening who liked her eyeliner and invited herself over for wine and half-listened stories. She was vibrant in a way that overwhelmed Cameron. Always speaking with her hands, always turning everything into a metaphor, always inserting herself into silences like she was allergic to them.
She was the kind of woman who brought pastries in a box with a gold string. Who expected thank-you texts when she left, and follow-up texts the next morning. She called Cameron "babe" unironically. She liked to talk about healing and growth and "emotional openness."
Cameron let her stay over sometimes—not because it felt good, but because it was something to do. Caroline filled the space with her voice, her routines, her curated music playlists. And for a while, that was fine. She wasn't looking for a soulmate. Just insulation.
But Caroline wasn't soft in the way Cameron needed. She was loud in a loving way, yes—but she didn't know how to sit in silence without asking, "What are you thinking about?" She noticed too much, then got frustrated when Cameron wouldn't answer.
One night, while Caroline was babbling about her coworker's divorce, Cameron took two Xanax and nodded along without hearing a word. She watched Caroline's mouth move and wondered what it would feel like to miss her if she never came back.
The truth was, she wouldn't.
Not really.
Cameron didn't even dislike her. Caroline was beautiful, expressive, and full of well-intentioned affection. But she wasn't the one.
Not that anyone ever would be.
Because Jasmine had broken the part of her that still hoped. Not with cruelty—Jasmine hadn't done anything wrong. It was the absence of anything that wrecked her. The nothingness between them. The silence Jasmine left behind.
It had rewired Cameron.
She had spent months trying to find something similar in other people. Months realizing that no one else came close. That the spark, that unbearable, all-consuming ache—it wasn't something she could recreate. It was specific. It was rare. It had come and gone like a fever dream.
Now, she didn't chase it.
She let it die.
There were still nights where she'd sit up in bed and feel the echo of it—like the ghost of a migraine, a pressure without pain. Sometimes she'd reach for her phone, scroll aimlessly through names she no longer felt connected to, and wait for something to stir.
Nothing ever did.
The Xanax kept her still. Kept the ache buried beneath the surface. Her doctor upped her dosage three months ago. She said she felt more "centered" on the new strength.
That was a lie.
She didn't feel anything at all.
And wasn't that the point?
Somewhere deep inside her, she missed the chaos. Missed the way Jasmine had stripped her down without even trying. Missed feeling like her chest was a house on fire.
Because now, it was just ashes.
No heat. No light. Just the gray dust of a life that had once felt sharp.
She sometimes wondered if Jasmine was happy. If she ever thought about her. If she'd ever known what Cameron carried behind her teasing smile and flippant remarks. She doubted it. She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the quiet.
Then, on what would have otherwise been an unremarkable Wednesday night, her phone vibrated against the table. She barely glanced at it at first, expecting another meaningless notification, another call she wouldn't bother returning. But when her eyes flicked over to the screen, the name staring back at her sent a small, unexpected shock through her veins.
Cheyenne.
She let it ring twice, staring at it with mild curiosity, before finally reaching for the phone. There was no rush of anticipation, no dread, just the vague acknowledgment that her past had found a way to tap on her shoulder once again. With a sigh, she answered.
"Hello?"