Five.
1738 Words
I have always believed that Camille could charm the moon out of the sky if she decided she wanted it. That evening proved it again.
We were sprawled across her bed, half talking, half laughing, when my phone began to ring. I did not even need to look at the screen to know it was my mother. There is a way your heart tightens when it is someone you are trying to avoid.
I was going to ignore it.
Camille did not let me.
Before I could reach for the phone, she snatched it from the duvet and answered with dramatic enthusiasm.
“Ohhh Aunty Eloise, I have missed you!”
I stared at her, horrified.
If anyone walked in at that moment, they would assume Camille was my mother’s biological daughter and I was some distant relative who occasionally borrowed her. The way she laughed, the way her voice softened, the way she rolled on her stomach and kicked her legs in the air like an excited teenager.
They talked for almost thirty minutes.
Thirty.
Minutes.
Camille narrated everything, from how we almost got late to class to how I nearly embarrassed her with my unhinged laughter earlier. She left out the parts about my parents threatening to choose a husband for me, thankfully. My mother laughed freely through the speaker, and for a moment I felt guilty for running away that morning.
When Camille finally handed the phone to me, she gave me a look that said behave.
I slipped out to the balcony before answering. I did not want Camille watching my face, analyzing every flicker of emotion like she always does. The evening air was cool, soft against my skin. The Whitmore and Dubois houses stood on opposite sides of wealth and legacy, but their balconies always felt like neutral ground.
“Hello, mummy.”
Her voice was lighter than I expected.
“Elena, you did not come home.”
It was not an accusation. It sounded almost… concerned.
“I am at Camille’s,” I said carefully.
“I know.”
Of course she knew.
There was a pause, and then she sighed, but not heavily. Not dramatically.
“I was just checking on you. I thought you would at least send a message.”
I leaned against the railing. “I needed space.”
“I gathered.”
Another pause. Then she laughed softly. “Be good. Though in that house, I doubt Aunty Louise will let you girls misbehave.”
I smiled despite myself. “She won’t.”
She asked if I was sure I would not come home. I told her I would sleep over. She reminded me to eat well. She told me she loved me.
And that was it.
No ultimatum.
No marriage lecture.
No emotional speech about destiny and responsibility.
When the call ended, I stood there for a few seconds, confused by the gentleness of it. Maybe she realized pushing me would only push me further away. Or maybe she was waiting for the right moment.
With my mother, silence was sometimes more dangerous than noise.
I went back inside.
Camille’s room felt slightly different from when I stepped out, but I could not immediately place it. Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the way my mood had shifted.
Then it hit me.
I had not been here in months.
School had swallowed me whole. The breakup had done the rest. I had retreated into myself without even realizing how far I had drifted from places that once felt like home.
Camille’s room was still pink in the most expensive way possible. Soft pastel walls, a massive vanity cluttered with skincare products that probably cost more than some people’s rent. Her bed was large and unnecessarily luxurious. Fairy lights framed her headboard.
But there were changes.
New frames on the wall. A different rug. A few unfamiliar books stacked on her side table.
And then my gaze landed on it.
A picture frame.
Camille and a man standing side by side. She was grinning widely, her arm hooked through his. He was not smiling fully, just that subtle half curve that suggested he knew exactly how powerful his silence was.
Alexander.
I swallowed.
Camille noticed immediately.
She always notices.
Her lips curved into a wicked grin. “Do you still crush on him?”
I scoffed so fast it almost hurt my throat. “Please.”
She burst out laughing. “You used to turn crimson whenever he walked into a room.”
I rolled my eyes, but heat crept up my neck anyway. “I was fifteen.”
“You were nineteen.”
“That is still teenage.”
She raised a brow. “You used to avoid him like he carried a contagious disease.”
That part was true.
Alexander Dubois had always been… detached. Even as kids, he was never fully present. While we ran around the garden or argued about nonsense, he would stand at a distance, observing, calculating, rarely speaking unless necessary.
And I crushed on him.
Hopelessly.
It was humiliating.
He never did anything to encourage it. He never flirted. Never teased. He simply existed, tall and composed, and my heart betrayed me every time.
I used to plan my movements around him. If he was in the living room, I found an excuse to be in the kitchen. If he entered the dining area, I suddenly remembered I had homework upstairs. And when I had no escape, my face would burn so hot I was convinced the entire room could see it.
Crimson.
Camille was not exaggerating.
“What is he doing now?” I asked, pretending the question was casual.
She shrugged and flopped onto her back. “Being Alexander.”
“That explains nothing.”
She laughed. “He is fine. Busy. Traveling the world. Making bastard money.”
That was very on brand.
Alexander had always been ambitious. Focused. He left for university abroad and never really came back properly. Visits were rare and brief. The house felt different when he was gone, but nobody ever said it out loud.
“When was the last time he came home?” I asked.
“A few months ago. You were buried in exams.”
Of course I was.
A strange mix of relief and disappointment settled in my chest.
“And you?” she teased. “Why are you asking so calmly?”
“I am not asking calmly.”
“You are. It is suspicious.”
I grabbed a pillow and threw it at her face. She shrieked dramatically.
“You are unbelievable,” I muttered.
She sat up again, hugging the pillow. “If he walked in right now, what would you do?”
“I would say hello like a normal human being.”
She laughed so loudly I had to shush her.
“You would freeze,” she said. “Then your ears would turn red. Then you would pretend you suddenly have an urgent call.”
“That was years ago.”
“People do not change that much.”
I pretended to examine my nails, but my mind betrayed me again, replaying memories I thought I had buried.
The way he used to call me Elena Whitmore when he was annoyed. The way his voice always sounded steady, never rushed. The way he would glance at me sometimes like he was trying to figure me out but never bothered to ask questions.
He had been impossible to read.
And maybe that was why I liked him.
“What if he gets married before you?” Camille said mischievously.
I felt something twist in my stomach. “Then I will attend the wedding and eat cake.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Liar.”
I forced a smile. “I am serious.”
She did not look convinced, but she let it go.
We shifted the conversation to something lighter. The three months training program coming up after the semester. The one our parents were ridiculously excited about because it would “shape our futures.”
Neither of us had plans.
“I might just travel,” Camille said dreamily. “Maybe Paris. Or Milan. Or somewhere dramatic.”
“You say that like you are not dramatic enough already.”
She threw the pillow at me this time.
“What about you?” she asked. “Law girl. Future courtroom queen.”
I lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling. “I do not know.”
That was the honest truth.
Everything felt uncertain lately. My parents’ ultimatum lingered in the background of my thoughts even when I pretended it did not. My last relationship had left a scar I refused to admit still hurt. And somewhere between lectures and expectations, I was losing clarity.
Maybe that was why the idea of Alexander unsettled me. He represented a version of myself that was softer. Younger. A girl who believed in silent glances and fairytale tension.
I was not that girl anymore.
At least I told myself I was not.
Camille nudged me. “You are thinking too hard.”
“I always think too hard.”
“That is your problem.”
I turned to face her. “You do not think at all.”
She gasped dramatically. “Rude.”
We both laughed.
And just like that, the heaviness that followed me all day loosened its grip.
For a few hours, there was no ultimatum. No politics. No expectations about marriage or destiny or disappointing God.
There was just me and Camille, lying on a bed in a room that had witnessed our childhood secrets and teenage tears.
Maybe my life was complicated.
Maybe my father was capable of enforcing discipline in ways that frightened me.
Maybe my mother was silently strategizing.
Maybe Alexander was somewhere across the world building an empire I could not even imagine.
But in that moment, none of it mattered.
I reached for the picture frame again, studying his face carefully this time.
Detached.
Composed.
Unreadable.
And I felt something stir quietly in my chest, something I was not ready to name.
Camille caught me looking.
“You are doomed,” she said softly.
I rolled my eyes and placed the frame back where it belonged.
“No,” I replied, forcing confidence into my voice.
“I am not.”
- Writer
