Page 16 of Their Arrangement
The moment I stepped inside, the air felt heavier. The light flickered overhead like it was trying to warn me away. My chair gave a pained squeak as I sat, like it was protesting my return. Like even the furniture had decided I didn’t belong.
I opened my bag slowly. Not because I was rummaging—but because everything felt louder than it should. The zipper buzzed in my ears. The crinkle of receipts. The muted thunk of my pen case sliding to one side.
Then I reached into the small zippered pocket I hadn’t touched in months.
And pulled out the photo.
It was creased in one corner. The edges curled slightly from wear. The image itself was faded at the sides, like time had been trying to eat it.
Me and Camille.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Laughing so hard our eyes were squinted shut.
She wore sleek black silk, strapless and stunning. I wore gold—off-the-shoulder, one of those dresses that made you feel like you belonged at a ball instead of pretending you were borrowing space at someone else’s party.
The dress had been hers.
She’d worn it once, hated the color, and passed it to me the next week with a half-smile and a flip of her hair.
Ugh. Not my color. You take it. It’ll look better on you anyway.
That was Camille.
She always made it look like generosity was a joke. Like she had too much of everything and needed help unloading it.
The dinners I couldn’t afford?
She “accidentally” ordered too much.
The handbags I complimented?
She just “happened” to have a spare.
She made me feel like I belonged to a life I didn’t have the keys to.
But I wasn’t stupid.
I knew she was feeding me because she knew I hadn’t eaten.
I knew she was covering rent with a casual text because she’d seen the final notice on my counter.
She did it with grace. With finesse. With the kind of love that never made me feel small—even when I was drowning.
I only called her out once.
She paid off a semester of my tuition behind my back. I found out when I logged into the portal and saw the zeroed balance.
I went to her penthouse, shaking. Humiliated. Furious.
She didn’t yell.
She didn’t even raise her voice.
She just leaned against the kitchen island, watching me with those ocean-colored eyes and said, quietly:
I know what it feels like to need help and be too proud to ask for it.
