Cameron had spent the entire day preparing, though she would never admit to the level of effort she put in. Every choice had to be exact. The right outfit, the right amount of makeup, the right hairstyle that looked effortless but took forty minutes and a half-panic attack to achieve. Every detail was carefully curated, designed to send the message: I have moved on. I am thriving. I am untouchable.
The lie was easy to rehearse. She would tell people she was still at the same job, sprinkle in some vague mentions of change to make it seem like she had evolved without really saying anything of substance. She wanted the illusion of progress, even if it wasn't real. The last thing she needed was for Jasmine to see her and think she had stagnated.
She stood in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around her chest, her wet hair clinging to her collarbones. Steam still clung to the bathroom walls, curling around her like smoke. She stared at her reflection for a long time, trying to decide if she looked more "mature" or just... more tired.
Her cheekbones looked a little sharper now. There was something hollower about her eyes. She traced a fingertip beneath one, smudging away the faint purple shadow there.
"You don't look wrecked," she murmured to her reflection, voice flat. "You look like someone who survived."
She didn't believe it.
She chose black pants that sat high on her waist and a button-down she left slightly open at the collar. Understated, clean, grown. She added a pair of small silver hoops—nothing dramatic. Her nails were painted the same neutral shade they always were, just a little fresher. Her boots were polished.
Aesthetic: Emotional stability, with just a hint of sexual ambiguity.
The makeup was harder. Despite the many years of putting on makeup, her hands shook slightly when she applied her concealer. She hated that. Hated the tremble. Hated that this felt like some kind of battlefield prep.
This wasn't a date.
It wasn't even a confrontation.
It was a stupid party.
Just an old name.
And yet every detail felt like a defense. A shell. Something to keep her from falling apart in front of Jasmine.
She wanted Jasmine to look at her.
That was the truth of it, ugly and unspoken. She didn't want Jasmine to want her. She wanted her to notice.
"It's just a party," she muttered, swiping gloss over her lips. "She probably won't even care."
But she still picked the earrings she'd imagined Jasmine complimenting.
She still added a spritz of the perfume Jasmine once said smelled "like sunlight."
"Coincidence," she whispered, as if that could seal it.
She sat on the edge of her bed afterward, staring at her phone. No notifications. No distractions. She almost texted Caroline—something casual, vague, asking what she was doing tonight.
But she didn't. She didn't want comfort. Not really.
Hated it so much that it made her chest tight with nausea.
She popped half a Xanax and washed it down with lukewarm coffee. Not enough to erase her, just enough to dull the sharp parts.
This wasn't because of Jasmine.
It was just routine now. Just a precaution.
Except her hands were shaking.
And she didn't need one yesterday.
Coincidence.
"You're not doing this again," she said out loud, grabbing her coat. "This isn't fate. You've moved on."
But she still felt the tug under her ribs—the one that whispered maybe.
Maybe she'll look at you differently this time.
By the time she left her apartment, she looked composed. Cold. Expensive. Like someone who didn't bleed anymore.
She drove with the windows down, the air biting at her skin. It helped keep her alert, grounded in something real. Her mind kept looping back, uninvited, to the last time she saw Jasmine. That perfect, ordinary goodbye. The way Jasmine smiled at her like she was just another pleasant coworker. Like Cameron hadn't spent weeks spiraling over every word, every gesture.
She gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Don't do this again.
Don't dig it up.
Cheyenne's house was in a suburban neighborhood that looked like it had been poured out of a mold. She parked two blocks away and walked the rest of the way, just to give herself time to breathe. The night air was sharp. Her breath fogged as she exhaled, steady and slow.
The porch light was on when she arrived. She could hear music through the windows, muted laughter, the rise and fall of familiar voices. She paused at the door, one hand hovering over the handle.
She could leave.
She could turn around right now, go back home, crawl into bed, and let the night pass without incident.
But she didn't.
She rang the bell.
Cheyenne greeted her with a squeal, arms thrown wide in the kind of hug Cameron used to tolerate at work events. She leaned in, offered a half-smile, said something polite. Her eyes scanned the room behind Cheyenne's shoulder—reflexively, instinctively. Jasmine wasn't there yet.
Good.
That gave her time.
The space was warm, crowded but not suffocating. Familiar faces blurred together—people she used to smile at in break rooms, people who probably thought they'd known her. They didn't. No one did.
She slipped through conversations with ease, offering just enough to pass. Her laugh was polished, hollow. Her compliments came easily, reflexively. No one seemed to notice the way she kept glancing toward the door.
At one point, someone handed her a drink—too sweet, fizzy with something fruit-flavored. She sipped it slowly, mostly to have something to hold. Her free hand stayed at her side, curled into a loose fist.
And then, without warning, the temperature in the room shifted.
She didn't see Jasmine walk in—she felt it.
A quiet electricity moved through her, all her senses suddenly tuning to a frequency she hadn't realized she still remembered. She turned slowly, heart skipping once, and caught sight of her just inside the doorway.
Jasmine.
She looked older. Not dramatically, but noticeably. Her hair had darkened, the blonde streaks now replaced with a deep, natural brown. Her style had changed too—more neutral, more elegant. But her face was still the same. That softness. That warmth.
Cameron felt it creeping in, the remnants of something she once drowned in. But it wasn't the same. The debilitating, suffocating obsession wasn't there. She still found her beautiful, still felt the pull, but it was quieter now, manageable. Time had dulled the sharp edges, eroded the overwhelming force of it. She could breathe.
And yet, the self-consciousness remained. The need to be perceived a certain way, to exude the coolness she had carefully constructed over these years. She would not crumble. She would not be desperate.
Jasmine hadn't noticed her yet, greeting others, laughing at something Cheyenne said. Cameron made a conscious decision: she would not make the first move.
So she waited.
It wasn't until someone else acknowledged her that she allowed herself to react. A lighthearted wave, a small smirk—just enough to acknowledge her without revealing the storm beneath.
This time, she would be in control. Or at least, that's what she told herself.