Cameron and Jasmine fell into a rhythm before either of them acknowledged it was happening.
Their outings stopped feeling like events and started feeling like habits. No more agonizing over timing, no more calendar obsessing—just a text from Jasmine and an automatic "yes" from Cameron.
Jasmine: [Let's go somewhere.]
Jasmine: [Wanna do something dumb today?]
Jasmine: [I'm bored. Save me.]
The messages came at random hours—mid-morning, past midnight, once even during Cameron's shift—and no matter the context, no matter how much she should have hesitated, she always came.
Because this wasn't a slow-burn kind of love.
This was all at once.
A car crash.
A cosmic punch to the ribs.
From the moment she'd first seen Jasmine—two years ago, laughing with a coworker in front of her desk—Cameron had been undone. There hadn't been a transition into love. Just impact.
And now that Jasmine was back in her life?
She was chasing that collision over and over again.
The first time Jasmine came to her apartment, Cameron nearly had a meltdown.
She'd cleaned obsessively, rearranged furniture, Febreezed her curtains—then un-Febreezed them when she decided it smelled too obvious. Every book on the shelf was curated, spines turned just right. Candles lit. Lighting dim. Vibe carefully engineered to look effortless.
When Jasmine walked in and let her gaze sweep the space, she smiled that magnetic smile that made people feel seen.
"I like it," she said, already drifting toward the bookshelves. "It's very you."
Cameron's heart skipped. Froze.
The words sank in like ink. She masked the flush that rose to her cheeks with a casual shrug.
"Glad it meets approval," she muttered.
Jasmine flipped through the pages of a paperback Cameron had never finished, then set it down gently, still smiling. "You're such a mystery sometimes."
Cameron blinked. "What do you mean?"
Jasmine didn't answer directly. Just tossed her bag onto the couch and said, "You hide your chaos really well."
Cameron didn't know if that was a compliment, but it landed like one.
Later, when she was the one stepping into Jasmine's space, something shifted.
Her breath caught when she saw the layers of Jasmine's life—clothes on the floor, books stacked like furniture, crystals on window sills, burning incense. The place smelled like rosewood and mint.
And tucked into the corners of it all: evidence of Andrew.
His cologne. His socks. His photos with Jasmine tucked into a mirror frame like Polaroid secrets.
It should've ripped Cameron back into reality.
But Jasmine moved through the apartment like Cameron belonged there too.
Andrew wasn't awful.
That made it worse.
He was polite, even funny sometimes—greeted her with a wave, asked how work was going, then vanished into the background without friction. He didn't seem jealous or threatened or even aware of the pull between Cameron and Jasmine. And that detached kindness only made Cameron feel more invisible.
She wanted a villain. A reason to hate him.
Instead, she got a non-issue. A quiet reminder that Jasmine already had someone who fit into her life without mess.
But still, she kept showing up.
Because Jasmine kept asking her to.
And there were moments—little, glimmering things—that Cameron clung to like lifelines.
The way Jasmine would tug on her wrist when Cameron lingered too long outside a store window. The way she'd lean her head on Cameron's shoulder when she was tired, murmuring, "You're so warm, I swear you radiate comfort." The way her laughter softened around her, less performative, more personal.
And then there were the phrases.
Casual. Offhand. But devastating in their implications.
"We should go on a trip together sometime."
"You make things feel easier, you know?"
"It's weird, but I always feel like you get me."
Cameron carried those words like holy scripture.
She knew there was a line.
She just didn't know if Jasmine could see it anymore.
Meanwhile, Rosalie was still there.
Still showing up. Still texting. Still waiting in the soft, quiet way only she could manage.
Cameron wasn't cold to her. She wasn't cruel.
But she was distracted.
Rosalie would come over some nights and curl up beside her, her presence grounding, her energy steady. And for a moment, it would feel good—safe. Like there was another version of this life where things were simpler. Where love didn't feel like a loaded weapon.
But even in Rosalie's arms, Cameron's mind wandered.
Jasmine's laugh. Jasmine's perfume. Jasmine's voice saying her name like it belonged to her.
Sometimes Rosalie would catch her zoning out and ask, "You still here?" with a crooked smile.
And Cameron would nod, lie through her teeth. "Just tired."
She hated the part of her that still needed Rosalie.
But she hated the part of her that used her anyway even more.
Because with Jasmine, everything felt like a possibility.
With Rosalie, it felt like a question Cameron didn't want to answer.
So she let the delusion grow.
Tended it like a garden.
Fed it every glance, every compliment, every shared cigarette.
Boyfriend or not—something was happening.
And if it wasn't love returned, it was at least the most alive Cameron had felt in years.