The realization should have been freeing. It should have lifted something off Cameron's chest, let her breathe a little easier, move a little lighter. But all it did was strip away the illusion, leaving her with nothing.
She had never really been in love with Jasmine.
Not in the way she had convinced herself. Not in the way that should have mattered.
Maybe she had just wanted something to ruin her. Maybe she had wanted someone to press their hands into her chest and hollow her out, carve her into something small, something that could be controlled. She had mistaken obsession for devotion, chaos for intimacy. And now, with Jasmine getting better, with the push and pull of their dynamic dissolving into something steady and level, Cameron felt herself unraveling.
The bars welcomed her like an old friend.
She lost track of the nights, of the strange women who pressed against her in the blur of dim lighting and neon signs. She let them laugh at her jokes, let them touch her arm, let them lean in close enough to feel the heat of her breath against their skin. She never let it go further than that. It wasn't about them. It was about the performance, about the chase, about punishing herself with the shallowest form of affection she could find.
Her phone buzzed on the sticky bar top, Jasmine's name illuminating the screen. Again.
She ignored it, lifting her glass to her lips instead.
It burned in her throat. She welcomed the sting.
Jasmine cornered her outside her apartment days later. Cameron had barely made it up the stairs before she saw her waiting, arms crossed, eyes tired. The progress she had made was evident—her posture stronger, her voice steadier—but Cameron hated it. Hated the way Jasmine looked at her now, like she was the one slipping away, like she was the one who needed saving.
Jasmine sighed. "Are you avoiding me?"
Cameron scoffed, fishing for her keys. "Not everything is about you."
"That's not an answer."
"I don't owe you one."
Jasmine's jaw tensed. "You've been drinking a lot."
"And?"
"And it's not good for you."
Cameron laughed, sharp and humorless. "Since when do we care about what's good for me?"
Silence stretched between them. Cameron didn't look up.
Jasmine exhaled, voice softer now. "I care."
Cameron clenched her jaw. "Oh, that's rich." She turned, finally meeting Jasmine's gaze. "You care now? When you're better? When you finally got your shit together? Where was that when I was breaking myself in half just to hold you together?"
Jasmine flinched. "That's not fair."
"No, what's not fair is you pulling me in every time you felt like falling apart and now—now that you don't need me like that anymore, you suddenly care about my well-being?" Cameron's voice was rising, her own words igniting something bitter in her chest. "You don't get to do that, Jasmine."
"I'm trying," Jasmine shot back. "I'm trying to be better—for me, for you. But you won't even let me."
Cameron laughed again, shaking her head. "You want to be better for me? Then why do I feel like shit every time I look at you?"
Jasmine's breath hitched, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. "Maybe because you don't want me to get better. Maybe you only loved me when I was broken because it made you feel needed."
The words struck Cameron harder than she was willing to admit. Her hands trembled as she shoved her key into the lock. "Go home, Jasmine."
"That's it? That's all you have to say?" Jasmine's voice cracked. "You can shut me out all you want, but it won't fix anything. It won't change the fact that you're the one who's running now."
Cameron squeezed her eyes shut, inhaling sharply. She wanted to scream, to lash out, to hurt Jasmine the way she had been hurt. But instead, she twisted the doorknob and stepped inside, the weight of the conversation pressing against her chest like a stone.
She let the door click shut between them.
Jasmine didn't knock. She didn't beg.
Cameron leaned against the door, heart pounding, throat tight. She hated herself.
She hated Jasmine for trying.
Most of all, she hated that some part of her wished Jasmine had fought harder to stay.