Jasmine sighed and looked down at her hands. Her voice was quiet, but not fragile. "I don't want you to feel like this isn't working," she said, sitting across from Cameron on the couch, legs tucked beneath her. "I know I can be… difficult. I get stuck in my own head about how things should be instead of just letting them happen."
The apartment was dim except for the yellow glow from the kitchen light, casting long shadows along the floor between them. The air was still. No TV. No music. Just the small distance between them and the soft hum of something trying not to fall apart.
Cameron stared at her for a long moment. Was this the same Jasmine who had bent the world around her desires? The same Jasmine who had never once admitted she was wrong—not really—only ever dodged, redirected, shut things down with a look or a silence that made Cameron second-guess herself?
It felt… surreal. Hearing this.
She swallowed and forced herself to meet Jasmine's gaze. "I didn't expect you to say that."
Jasmine gave a small, self-deprecating smile and let out a breath like it hurt to hold it in. "I know." She reached forward, slowly, cautiously, and took Cameron's hand between both of hers. Her grip wasn't tight. It wasn't desperate. Just there. Steady. "But I don't want to lose you."
The words were soft, but they hit Cameron harder than she anticipated. She'd wanted to hear something like that for months.
She didn't want to lose Jasmine either. Despite everything—the manipulation, the hot-and-cold, the way Jasmine had made her question her own instincts over and over again—Cameron still wanted her. Still loved her. That part never changed. It had just been buried under disappointment.
Cameron had expected the discomfort between them to stretch on indefinitely, to solidify into something cold and permanent. But as the days passed, something began to shift.
Jasmine was trying.
Not with grand gestures or forced apologies. Not with performative sweetness or shallow promises. She was trying in a way that felt… intentional. Measured. She didn't get it right all the time, but there was effort in the way she watched Cameron more closely now, listened with her full attention, asked instead of assumed.
It started with small things. Jasmine began asking how Cameron's day had gone—and listening, actually listening, to the answer. She reached for her hand when they crossed the street. She began leaving her phone face-up on the counter, notifications on, a quiet signal: I'm not hiding anything.
She started asking questions Cameron hadn't expected to hear. What makes you feel safe? Do you want space tonight or closeness? Am I doing enough?
They were questions Jasmine wouldn't have asked six months ago. Maybe not even last week.
Cameron wasn't used to this version of her. This Jasmine who offered instead of demanded. Who didn't flinch at Cameron's silences but waited patiently, giving her room to speak in her own time.
It wasn't perfect. It still felt uneven, like learning to dance with someone who kept stepping on your toes, but it was something new. Something real.
One night, as they lay tangled on the couch in the low glow of Cameron's living room, Jasmine let out a quiet sigh.
"I've been thinking a lot about us," she murmured, her fingers tracing absentminded circles along Cameron's wrist.
Cameron, resting on her side, turned slightly toward her. The night was still. Her breathing was calm, but her chest felt tight with anticipation. "And?"
Jasmine hesitated, eyes fixed on the space between them instead of Cameron's face. "I know I haven't always been… fair to you." Her voice was deliberate now. Not apologetic, but accountable. "I took more than I gave. And I convinced myself that was normal."
Cameron didn't move. Didn't speak.
"I thought love was supposed to orbit me," Jasmine continued. "Like… if someone really cared, they'd follow. They'd adjust. But that's not love. That's control."
The admission hung in the room like fog. Cameron felt her throat tighten. She hadn't expected Jasmine to articulate it that clearly.
"I want to be better," Jasmine said finally. "I want to meet you where you are. Not just expect you to meet me where I'm comfortable."
Cameron studied her face in the half-light. Part of her still didn't believe it. Or maybe just didn't believe it would last. She had heard apologies before—versions of them, watered down and laced with guilt—but this one felt different. Grounded. Like it had come from reflection, not impulse.
Still, doubt lingered. The kind that had burrowed deep and didn't let go easily.
"I don't want to feel like I have to fight to keep you," Cameron whispered, surprised at the way the words tumbled out. "I just want us to be… easy."
Jasmine's fingers curled around hers, squeezing gently. "Then let's figure out how to make it easy."
They lay there in silence for a while, the quiet not heavy this time, but full. Eventually, the conversation picked up again—no longer about old fights or miscommunications, but about them. Who they were. What they needed. What they feared.
Cameron told Jasmine how much words mattered to her. How she needed to hear things, to be told she was wanted, that she mattered, that her presence was more than just tolerated. That without words, her mind filled in the blanks—and not kindly.
Jasmine listened. Really listened.
And when it was her turn to speak, she admitted that words had always felt slippery to her. That she'd been taught to do, not say. That actions made her feel secure, made love feel real in a way words never could.
They didn't come to a resolution. Not a tidy one. But they made promises. Not forever promises. Not romantic clichés. Just quiet ones.
To keep trying.
To speak the other's language, even if it didn't come naturally.
To stop mistaking silence for safety.
Cameron didn't know how long it would last. She didn't know if Jasmine would keep trying, or if the old patterns would creep back in like they always had. But as she drifted off to sleep with Jasmine curled softly beside her, fingertips still brushing against her wrist, she let herself feel something close to hope.