I keep circling back to the same snag in my thoughts—he doesn’t like me. Not really. No one does—not in the way that sticks. And he’s still holding a candle for his wife, practically trying to drag her ghost back into this house.
So why the hell did he kiss me?
God, adulthood is exhausting.
Right now, I’m filing that moment under ‘Too Much to Process’ and shoving it into the mental cabinet labeled ‘AvoidUntil Further Notice’. I’ll follow the evening routine. Do the rounds. Pretend everything’s normal.
And maybe—maybe—if I feel brave, I’ll ask stalker boy later what exactlythatwas.
The afternoon slips by faster than I expect, especially given the fact I’m actively avoiding Cameron. It’s a delicate dance—room to room, noise to silence, trying not to collide with him in any of the shared spaces we’re both pretending aren’t emotionally radioactive.
Boomerang, traitorous little ginger fluff that he is, has been uncharacteristically well-behaved. Maybe he senses the shift in energy. Or maybe, having successfully wedged himself between us, he’s simply satisfied with the chaos he’s sown.
By the time I re-enter the kitchen, intent on scraping together some form of dinner, I stop short.
There’s already a plate waiting for me.
Pasta and salad. Nothing flashy, but still warm. No note. No sign of him. Just the quiet hum of the fridge and the silent implication—don’t cook. Just eat.
I stare at it for a moment, unsure if I should feel grateful, irritated, or quietly disarmed.
Maybe all three.
There’s no point in overthinking it right now—not with my stomach staging a full-blown protest. I haven’t eaten properly all day, and it makes its displeasure loud and clear as I settle at the counter.
I take a bite.
Of course it’s good. Better than good.
He’s annoyingly competent in the kitchen too—just enough seasoning, dressing balanced like it’s been calculated to the gram. Every bite says I pay attention, even when he pretends he doesn’t.
Maybe I should learn to cook properly, when this is all over.
Normal things. Nothing fancy—meat and rice would suffice. The kind of foods that, apparently, normal adults can cook.
But the thought makes something twist behind my ribs.
Because when this is over—if it ever is—what do I go back to? There’s nothing steady waiting for me. No rhythm. No routine. No meaning.
Here, oddly, I almost feel like I have a purpose.
A plan. Somewhere I could potentially be missed. Where I could come back to someone who expects me to walk back through the door.
And ever since that moment with Cameron—messy, impulsive, terrifying in what it exposed—I’ve started to wonder if maybe,maybe, he wants me to stay.
Not just for safety. Not just until it’s over.
But for something real.
The night air bites harder than I expect—a sharp reminder that summer’s slipping away, and with it, the illusion of warmth. I pull Cameron’s hoodie tighter around me as I step out. It’soversized, heavy with his scent, and I hate how safe it makes me feel.
At least he hasn’t saddled me with some regimented workout routine. Small victories. A steep incline walk is about as much motivation as I can scrape together tonight. Anything beyond that? Not happening.
Still, I don’t mind the walking.
It’s quiet. Predictable. Gives me space to think. To unpick all the noise building up behind my ribs sincethatmoment.
Because all I can think about is his touch. The heat and certainty of it. The way it sparked something in me I didn’t realise was still capable of sparking.
