Cameron woke up the next morning to the faint scent of smoke drifting through her room.
Rosalie was already up, perched by the window like a statue carved out of shadow and soft morning light. A cigarette hung loosely between her fingers, the ember glowing faintly in the dim sun. The early light cast sharp angles on her face, highlighting the exhaustion that had settled into her features like permanent ink.
Cameron blinked slowly, trying to remember what day it was. Then she saw the cigarette in Rosalie's hand, and something about it—its familiarity, its casual intimacy—snapped her awake.
She stretched lazily, her joints cracking, her brain still syrup-slow. She reached for her own cigarette from the nightstand and lit it with the practiced motion of someone who had done it hundreds of times without thinking.
When she caught Rosalie watching her out of the corner of her eye, she offered a small, familiar smile—the kind Rosalie was used to. Hollow. Unreadable.
"You should start coming by later on in the night," Cameron said, breaking the silence without breaking eye contact. "Just in case I'm not home."
Rosalie exhaled a slow stream of smoke, lips barely moving. Her gaze drifted back out the window. "Yeah? You planning on being busy?"
"Maybe," Cameron said vaguely, flicking the ash into the tray beside her bed.
She didn't look at Rosalie when she added, "Oh, and don't come over next Friday. I have plans."
Rosalie didn't ask what kind of plans. She didn't push or prod or try to decode Cameron's tone. She just nodded, letting it go as easily as she let everything else go.
That was the thing about Rosalie—unlike Cameron, her indifference wasn't an act. It wasn't armor. It wasn't a game.
It was just who she was.
And Cameron wished—desperately—that she could be like that.
After Rosalie left, the air in the apartment felt lighter, but not in a relieving way. It was like the pressure had shifted, moved somewhere deeper in Cameron's chest.
She settled into a new kind of routine. One that revolved entirely around Jasmine.
Wake up. Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Pop pills. Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Drink an energy drink. Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Get ready for work. Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Every part of her day was built around the possibility of contact. Each buzz of her phone sent her heart into overdrive. Every silence, every hour without a message, spun her into quiet desperation.
She spent her workday on autopilot, smiling when she had to, nodding through conversations she wouldn't remember. But her mind was always elsewhere—planning, scripting, spiraling.
Spend the workday planning every detail of their upcoming "date."
Go home. Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Pop more pills. Wash them down with alcohol.
Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Sleep with Rosalie.
Check for a notification from Jasmine.
Sleep. Dream about Jasmine.
It was a cycle that blurred the edges of her days, each one bleeding into the next. Time lost meaning. Everything outside the narrative she was constructing felt dim, irrelevant.
She replayed their last exchange dozens of times. Jasmine's message. The photo. The casual invitation to the café. The use of a bookstore as bait—it was all so Jasmine. Soft. Disarming. Dangerous.
And Cameron let herself believe.
She spent every spare moment dissecting their interactions like a scholar analyzing sacred text. What did Jasmine mean by that emoji? Was the punctuation intentional? Did the timing of her messages mean anything?
She parsed every glance they had exchanged during the move. Reconstructed the exact tone of Jasmine's voice when she'd said they had a "connection."
The hope was sweet. Addictive. It quieted the darker things inside her, made the pills and the booze feel optional for a day or two. But that quiet never lasted long.
By Thursday evening, Cameron had everything planned.
She stood in front of her closet for nearly an hour, pulling outfit after outfit and tossing each one onto the bed in a frustrated heap.
She didn't want to look like she tried.
But she had to try.
Eventually, she settled on something effortlessly cool—something that hugged the right parts of her without looking obvious. Something Jasmine would look at for just a second too long.
Then came the details.
She memorized the café's menu, practicing her order like it was a line in a play. She googled the bookstore's layout, familiarized herself with a few titles that sounded impressive but not pretentious. She planned casual, charming comments to slip into conversation—things that would make Jasmine laugh, things that would make her think.
She even rehearsed the way she'd stand while browsing books—leaning casually against the shelves, one hand in her jacket pocket. The image was already fully formed in her mind. Cinematic. Romantic. Controlled.
She imagined how the night would unfold.
The way Jasmine's eyes would linger. The way they'd bump hands while reaching for the same book. The way Jasmine might tilt her head, smile that soft, knowing smile, and say something that shattered Cameron's composure completely.
This wasn't just a friendly hangout.
This was fate.
And Cameron was ready for it.
She had to be.
Because if it wasn't fate, if it didn't mean anything—then what the hell had she been doing all this for?