It was folded in thirds. Soft at the corners. Nearly worn to fabric. I smoothed it open with care, like the paper might tear if I breathed too hard.
Me and Camille.
Her arm slung around my shoulder. Both of us in heels. Laughter. The glow of some overpriced restaurant behind us.
That night, she’d taken me somewhere I couldn’t afford. Walked in like the world belonged to her. Ordered champagne like it was sparkling water. Passed her plate across the table when she saw how slowly I picked at mine.
I’m stuffed, babe. Help me out.
She was always “stuffed” when I was hungry.
She pushed her credit card into the checkbook without glancing at the total. Talked about nothing for the next ten minutes so I wouldn’t say thank you.
And when we left, she handed me a shopping bag with a new jacket, heels, and a dress that hugged my hips like it had been tailored.
“Not my style,” she said, like she hadn’t picked it for me six weeks earlier.
She knew I had nothing.
And she never made me say it.
I clutched the photo until my knuckles ached.
She’d been everything.
And now she was gone.
And I was here.
Drowning in her memory. Her clothes. Her world.
The bathroom door creaked open.
I stiffened.
Two steps. Rubber soles against tile.
Then silence.
I held my breath.
Shoes stopped just outside the stall.
No movement.
No sound.
Just… presence.
Like someone was listening.
Waiting.
My heart thudded against my ribs. Loud. Too loud.
I blinked at the door, willing it to stay closed. Willing whoever stood there to walk away.
They didn’t.