Saturday arrived quicker than Cameron expected. It always did when it came to Jasmine.
She had spent the last few days trying to convince herself not to go, cycling through every excuse she could muster—she wasn't feeling well, something came up, she had an emergency. She even typed out a few fake cancellations, hovered over the send button, stared at them like they might dissolve her uncertainty.
But the moment Jasmine's name lit up her phone that morning with a simple,
Jasmine: [See you at 2?]
—all those excuses vanished.
The excitement was undeniable.
Dangerous, but undeniable.
If she was really going to end this, she couldn't afford to make herself look too appealing. This wasn't a date. It wasn't a chance to impress. It was supposed to be a final goodbye, a moment of closure, a stepping stone toward something healthier. That was the plan, anyway.
She pulled on a pair of bleach-stained jeans and an old band t-shirt, tying her hair up into a careless bun. The only makeup she allowed herself was a touch of concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes—the remnants of too many sleepless, substance-laced nights. She stared at herself in the mirror, tilting her head slightly.
"This is plenty," she told herself.
Then, just to be sure, she threw on an oversized hoodie.
A final layer of protection.
At exactly 2 p.m., she pulled up to Jasmine's place. No eagerness. No desperation. Just punctuality. The street was quiet, the afternoon sun dull and soft through a thin layer of clouds. It felt like the kind of day nothing bad could happen.
But the moment Jasmine opened the door, Cameron's resolve wavered.
Her heart did that fluttering thing she despised.
Jasmine was wearing a loose, faded t-shirt and athletic shorts, her hair tied back in a ponytail, stray pieces framing her face in that effortless, enchanting way. She looked relaxed, glowing—like she had been laughing just before Cameron arrived. Like she hadn't been the cause of Cameron's emotional ruin, like this was just another afternoon.
"Cameron!" Jasmine beamed, pulling her into a brief hug that smelled like lavender dryer sheets and warm vanilla. "You actually came. Thank you so much. No one else even considered helping."
Cameron smirked, ignoring the warmth of Jasmine's arms around her. "Guess I'm just a saint."
Jasmine laughed, stepping aside to let her in. "Or maybe you just wanted to show off those athletic skills you mentioned."
Cameron froze for a second. Right. That lie. The one she told to impress her ages ago, some fake story about running marathons and being sporty. She could correct it now—say it was a joke, admit she barely ran unless she was late to work. But no. That would invite more conversation than she could handle.
So instead, she chuckled and rolled her shoulders like she was warming up. "Yeah, well, don't expect me to be a moving expert or anything."
The apartment smelled like takeout and fabric softener. The windows were cracked open to let in a breeze, and a faint playlist drifted in from a Bluetooth speaker—soft indie rock, something ambient and non-distracting. There were boxes scattered across the floor, some half-packed, some still flattened against the wall. Jasmine had clearly tried to organize, but chaos was inevitable.
They fell into a rhythm quickly, sorting books into piles, folding clothes into boxes, bubble-wrapping a few framed prints that looked like online store finds or gifts from friends. Cameron's fingers brushed Jasmine's a few times, and each time it happened, Jasmine didn't flinch or pull away. She just smiled—soft, absentminded. Like it meant nothing. Like it was okay.
They chatted about everything and nothing. Jasmine talked about her new apartment, about how she was excited for more sunlight and a better commute. She ranted about work in that charming, half-exhausted way she always had. Cameron nodded along, adding the occasional joke, pretending she wasn't cataloguing every syllable for safekeeping.
Cameron took in every detail of Jasmine's space—the mugs that didn't match, the stack of worn paperbacks by the bed, the candles burned low to the wick. There was a small succulent on the window sill, and a Polaroid taped to the fridge that Cameron didn't look at too closely.
The scent of jasmine and linen clung to the air like it belonged there.
Every second in her presence chipped away at her resolve.
This was nice.
This was easy.
And that's what made it dangerous.
Jasmine moved around the room with a kind of casual energy—singing along softly to the music, lifting boxes with a dramatic groan just to make Cameron laugh, brushing her ponytail back with the back of her hand. She made it look like the past year hadn't mattered. Like nothing had changed between them.
And for a little while, Cameron let herself believe it.
She let herself forget that this was goodbye.
Forget that Jasmine was moving into a future that didn't include her.
Forget that Rosalie existed, waiting in the wings of something real.
They broke for water halfway through, sitting on the floor with their backs against the couch. Jasmine pulled off her socks with a wince and tossed them into a laundry pile.
"You always show up for people," she said out of nowhere, not looking at Cameron. "Even when you don't have to."
Cameron shrugged. "I guess that's one of my better flaws."
Jasmine laughed—quiet, fond.
There was a pause. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just... suspended.
Then Jasmine turned her head, meeting Cameron's eyes.
"I'm glad you came," she said.
Cameron nodded, the words catching somewhere in her throat. "Yeah. Me too."
She didn't know if she meant it.
But it felt good to say it.
Why couldn't they stay like this forever?