Cameron stared at Jasmine, the weight of her words sinking into her bones like a slow, creeping chill. This was everything she had once wanted—no, everything she had once begged the universe for in the quiet moments when she was alone and aching. The longing she had buried, the fantasies she'd spun from scraps of eye contact and almost-touch—every piece of it was coalescing into this moment.
And yet, standing here, staring into Jasmine's wide, panicked eyes, she felt none of the things she thought she would.
Where was the rush of validation? The breathless euphoria? The feeling of finally being chosen?
Instead, a hollow space stretched inside her, vast and uncertain, as if her body had already known what her mind was struggling to accept: this isn't real. Or, if it is, it isn't enough. It had come too late, too broken, too drenched in the consequences of silence.
Cameron's throat was dry. "You're in love with me?"
Jasmine nodded quickly, too quickly, as if her enthusiasm could patch over all the times she had looked the other way. "Yes," she said. "I am."
It was a statement, but it felt like a question. Like she was waiting for Cameron to confirm it, to give her permission to believe her own words. Cameron's fingers curled at her sides, fingernails digging into the fabric of her sleeves.
She had imagined this so many times—Jasmine confessing, Jasmine reaching out, Jasmine finally seeing her. But in all her imaginings, it had never looked like this: this frantic, half-formed confession delivered with trembling lips and watery eyes. It felt less like a declaration of love and more like a lifeline Jasmine was flinging out in desperation.
"You never acted like it," Cameron murmured.
Jasmine stiffened, the smile slipping just slightly. "That's not true."
"Isn't it?" Cameron's voice softened, not out of mercy but fatigue. "You pushed me away every time I got too close. You kept me around when it was convenient, then left me hanging when it wasn't."
"That's not—" Jasmine shook her head, exhaling sharply. "That's not what I meant to do. I was scared, okay? You have no idea how much I—" She cut herself off, pressing a hand to her forehead as if trying to physically hold the thoughts in place. "I didn't know how to handle it. I thought if I ignored it, it would go away."
Cameron let out a dry laugh, more bitter than amused. "You thought your feelings would go away?"
Jasmine hesitated. "Yes."
"Or you thought I would?"
The silence that followed was sharp and damning. Jasmine's eyes widened, mouth opening as if to reply, but no words came. It was the kind of pause that answered more than any explanation ever could.
The hollow in Cameron's chest deepened. "You don't love me, Jasmine," she said, voice eerily calm. "You love that I love you."
Jasmine's breath hitched, her lips parting again, this time in protest—but still, she didn't speak. She couldn't. Because deep down, she knew. She had always known.
"I do love you," she insisted, stepping forward, hands wringing. "I just—I was stupid. I let everything else get in the way, but I see it now. I see you now."
Cameron studied her, this girl she had memorized like scripture. Every expression, every tilt of the head, every cadence of her voice was familiar. But for the first time, Cameron wasn't blinded by it. For the first time, she saw Jasmine not as a fantasy or a symbol, but as a person—flawed, confused, reaching for something she didn't fully understand.
"I don't know if I can believe you," Cameron admitted, the words catching like thorns in her throat. They tasted like surrender.
Jasmine's face twisted, raw and unguarded—fear, desperation, regret all fighting for space. "You can," she said, reaching out and catching Cameron's hands in hers. "I'll prove it. Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just—just give me a chance."
Cameron's fingers twitched in hers, but she didn't pull away. She wasn't sure if she wanted to. Part of her wanted to melt into the familiarity of Jasmine's touch, to believe that things could rewind to the version of them that had only existed in her daydreams. Another part—the louder, steadier part—knew that this was a trap disguised as salvation.
"Say you'll stay," Jasmine whispered. "Say you won't shut me out."
It was always that with Jasmine. Always an ask. A plea. A promise that never came with follow-through. Jasmine was a door Cameron had walked through too many times, only to find herself in the same room with different wallpaper.
Cameron closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. The air felt heavy in her lungs.
She had two choices: walk away, knowing she'd never truly be free of this gravitational pull, or stay, knowing she would never quite be whole.
She would never be untouched by this. Not anymore.
Her eyes fluttered open, meeting Jasmine's gaze—wide, vulnerable, drowning in the kind of hope that made Cameron's stomach twist.
Jasmine looked like she needed her to say yes in order to stay standing.
And Cameron—Cameron had never been good at letting people fall.
So she forced a small, exhausted smile. "Okay."
Jasmine exhaled like she'd been underwater, a sharp rush of relief flooding her face as she squeezed Cameron's hands tighter, like she might lose her again if she let go.
And just like that, the cycle continued.
But as Jasmine wrapped her arms around her, pressing her face into Cameron's shoulder, Cameron stared over her shoulder into the middle distance—eyes unfocused, body rigid. She couldn't even pretend to lean in.
She was still spinning.
Still trapped in orbit.