The return home felt surreal—like stepping out of a dream and into something just as beautiful, but real.
Cameron and Jasmine moved through the airport with the ease of people who had remembered how to breathe. Their fingers stayed linked, small smiles exchanged between them without words. There was a lightness now, a quiet in their shared space that hadn't existed before. The heaviness that once sat between them had lifted—if only temporarily.
They didn't talk about what came next. They didn't need to. It was an unspoken agreement, carried in glances and half-laughed jokes. When they reached Cameron's apartment, Jasmine didn't ask if she could stay. And Cameron didn't suggest it. She just handed Jasmine her spare key and made space in her dresser.
A couple days turned into several.
They moved through the week like a slow waltz—gentle, easy, unhurried. They cooked meals together, their hips brushing in the kitchen, stealing bites of each other's food. They curled up on the couch with old movies, wrapped in blankets and shared warmth. Mornings became sacred: sun pooling across their skin, tangled sheets, whispered nothings between kisses.
It felt like an arrival. Like all the turbulence that had come before had finally landed them here.
But stability didn't mean stillness.
And Jasmine hadn't forgotten her promise.
A week after they returned, they sat side-by-side in a warmly lit waiting room, the hush of soft instrumental music filling the space. Cameron held Jasmine's hand, her thumb tracing small circles over her skin. Jasmine's knee bounced restlessly, her fingers tapping against her thigh, but she didn't pull away from Cameron's touch.
Cameron offered her a smile, one that was meant to say you're not alone, but Jasmine didn't look up. Her eyes were fixed on the closed door at the far end of the room, her expression unreadable.
When her name was called, she stood without speaking. Cameron rose with her.
The doctor's office was painted in calming earth tones—like someone had tried to create safety out of color. The therapist, a gentle-voiced clinician with kind eyes and a steady gaze, introduced herself and asked Cameron if she wanted to wait outside.
Jasmine squeezed her hand once, then shook her head. "Stay."
So she did.
Cameron sat close, her posture relaxed even though her insides felt like a wire pulled too tight. She watched as Jasmine fielded questions—some simple, some probing. She watched her hesitate, then answer. Sometimes too vaguely. Sometimes with too much detail. Her voice wavered when she talked about her moods. Her relationships. Her patterns. Her fear of abandonment. Her impulsivity. The places in her that didn't feel safe, even to herself.
The therapist nodded often. Took notes. Made no judgments. Just listened.
And when it was over, she set the clipboard aside and offered Jasmine a gentle look.
When the doctor finally spoke, their words were gentle but firm. "Based on everything we've discussed today, I believe you may have borderline personality disorder."
Jasmine blinked, the words settling into the space between them like a slow-moving fog. Cameron tightened her grip on her hand, waiting for her to react, waiting for something—but Jasmine just stared ahead, silent.
Cameron's stomach twisted. She knew this was a turning point. She just didn't know which way Jasmine would turn.