A day passed before Cameron received another text from Jasmine.
The near twenty-four hours between the previous message and this one dragged like wet cement. Cameron had spent them mindlessly daydreaming, deluding herself, indulging in the same cycle she swore she had broken.
It was intoxicating—the way her mind crafted possibilities. The way she constructed alternate realities in which Jasmine's texts meant something deeper, in which every word was laced with the same longing she felt. In her head, Jasmine had sent the message hesitantly, testing the waters. In her head, Jasmine would smile when they saw each other again. Would touch her arm. Would say something that rewrote history.
It was a drug.
And she was overdosing again.
The text came while Cameron was in the shower. She barely registered the buzz over the sound of rushing water, the way the vibration hummed against the sink. She assumed it was Rosalie—likely telling her whether or not to expect her tonight. Or maybe Cheyenne, forwarding some meme that would earn a blank stare.
But there was a chance.
A small, electric chance.
And that possibility sent a jolt through her.
She turned off the water with slippery fingers, heart suddenly racing. She didn't dry herself. She didn't think. She stepped out of the tub, half-dripping, half-stumbling, and lunged for the counter where her phone sat lit and waiting.
The name on the screen made the air disappear from the room.
Jasmine.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she unlocked it, fingers trembling.
Jasmine: [Hey! Just wanted to confirm—Saturday at 2 works if you're still good to help with the move! :)]
Jasmine: [It's my boyfriend's apartment I'm moving into, so he'll help put everything away once we bring it over!]
The second sentence struck like a hammer to the chest.
Her breath caught—froze. Her body didn't react at first. Just stilled. Like her mind refused to process the meaning of the words. She reread the message, once, twice, a third time, as if the letters might rearrange themselves into something softer.
They didn't.
They remained unchanged. Final.
The phone slipped from her hand, hitting the bathroom floor with a dull, flat thud.
It was over.
No—it had always been over.
She had just refused to believe it.
The crash of reality came fast and brutal—a car wreck in her chest, the metal twisting, the glass shattering, the fire swallowing her whole.
Cameron stood motionless, water still dripping from her skin onto the cold tile floor. Her vision blurred, not from tears at first, but from the sheer disorientation. The dizziness of waking up too fast inside a nightmare you begged to believe was a dream.
She backed into the wall, knees trembling.
It was just a favor.
Just a kind gesture.
Just a friend with a boyfriend and a life that didn't include her.
And Cameron had read everything into it.
You idiot. You fool.
Her breathing turned shallow. Her chest felt too tight, like she couldn't get enough air in. Her limbs buzzed with a growing heat—rage or grief or both. She didn't bother dressing before she moved, storming out of the bathroom and into the bedroom like something inside her had snapped.
The first thing to go was the lamp.
She didn't even hesitate.
She hurled it against the wall, and it shattered with a burst of glass and electricity, the bulb exploding in a burst of sparks. The scream that tore from her chest came raw and ugly, louder than she expected, and it didn't make her feel better. It made it real.
Then came the stack of books—flung from the dresser in one sweep, their spines smacking against the floor, pages bent and torn. A framed photo of her and her cousin, one of the few she kept, was next. It crashed and broke in three pieces. She didn't blink.
The dresser itself rocked as she slammed her shoulder into it. Once. Twice. On the third hit, the back panel gave, leaving a jagged dent in the wall. Her shoulder throbbed. She didn't care.
Her hands stung from gripping too tightly. Her throat burned. Her muscles screamed. But she didn't stop. Not until there was nothing left to break. Nothing that would answer her back. Nothing that could undo what she had done to herself.
She collapsed to the floor, heaving, sweat and water mixing on her skin. Her pulse was erratic. Her chest kept clenching.
She was a husk.
Pathetic.
She pressed her forehead to the ground, her arms folding over her head as if she could protect herself from something cosmic, something cruel and invisible.
Please make it stop.
Please let me disappear.
Maybe if she stayed still enough, the universe would forget she existed.
Maybe she could forget she existed.
She didn't hear the footsteps at first—just the click of the lock, the soft creak of the door opening.
Then boots on broken glass.
Cameron didn't move. Some twisted part of her wanted it to be Jasmine. Knew it wasn't. Still, her body didn't flinch when the footsteps came closer.
It was Rosalie.
Of course it was.
Rosalie's silence filled the room, louder than any accusation. Cameron risked a glance upward and saw it—not anger, not shock.
Pity.
That was worse.
Her lips parted to speak, to tell her to leave, to scream or sob or something—anything—but no sound came out.
Rosalie stepped forward, her expression unreadable, then crouched beside her. She reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from Cameron's face, her hand unexpectedly gentle.
"You're a fucking mess," she muttered, voice low, the edges of a sigh curling through it.
Cameron let out a sound—half a sob, half a laugh.
"Yeah."
Rosalie didn't try to fix it. Didn't scold her. Didn't ask questions. She just sat down beside her, her back against the frame of the bed, the two of them surrounded by the damage Cameron had caused.
"Let's clean this up," she said finally.
Cameron didn't move.
But for the first time that night, she didn't feel alone.