Four.
1804 Words
Have I properly introduced you to Camille Laurent.
I do not mean mentioned her in passing or casually described her as my best friend. I mean truly introduced her.
Because Camille is not just a best friend. She is my twin in another face and another family. We were woven together long before we knew what friendship meant. Our fathers built businesses together before we could spell our own names. Our mothers were inseparable before we ever took our first steps. There are photo albums somewhere in my mother’s closet with pictures of Camille and me sitting side by side in matching diapers, staring at each other like suspicious diplomats negotiating milk rights.
That is how far back we go.
Camille is the best gift life gave me. She always shows up. No matter how dramatic, unreasonable, emotional, or stubborn I become, she shows up. If I call at two in the morning, she answers. If I cry, she sits. If I laugh like a maniac in the middle of campus, she covers my mouth and announces to strangers that I am completely normal.
We are alike in ways that sometimes scare people. We are both bold. Both opinionated. Both allergic to nonsense. Both capable of being soft in private and terrifying in public.
But there is one difference.
Camille spends money like it regenerates in her account by divine miracle.
I do not.
Yes, our parents have money. Yes, we grew up in homes where comfort was never a question. Yes, we never had to worry about tuition or rent or whether the lights would stay on.
But still.
There is something in me that resists reckless spending. Maybe it is pride. Maybe it is caution. Maybe it is the part of me that always wants to feel in control.
Camille, on the other hand, sees a limited edition bag and hears angels singing.
We had barely crossed the campus gate when she stopped mid sentence.
“Elena.”
I looked at her.
“What.”
Her face twisted slightly.
“Oh no.”
“What.”
She pressed her lips together and gave me the look every woman understands without explanation.
“I just got my period.”
I blinked.
“Right now.”
“Right now.”
Her shoulders sagged. For someone as glamorous as Camille, this was the ultimate betrayal.
“You track it,” I said.
“I do.”
“And.”
“It betrayed me.”
I sighed, trying not to laugh.
She swatted my arm weakly.
“Don’t you dare.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
We stood there for a moment while she clutched her bag like it had personally offended her.
“I’m calling the driver,” she declared.
“Already.”
“Yes. I am not walking another step.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am uncomfortable.”
“Fair.”
She stepped aside to make the call. I watched her while she spoke in that polished tone she used with household staff, firm but polite.
As she hung up, she glanced at me carefully.
“Come home with me.”
I hesitated.
She noticed immediately.
“You don’t want to go home.”
It was not a question.
I exhaled slowly.
“I can go.”
“You don’t want to.”
I didn’t.
The thought of walking into the house and seeing my mother’s face, knowing she was waiting for a response to her ultimatum, knowing she expected some shift in me, made my stomach tighten.
Camille softened.
“Come home with me,” she repeated. “You can leave later.”
I studied her for a second, then nodded.
“Fine.”
She smiled like she had won something.
“Good.”
Her car pulled up not long after.
Camille drives a BMW. Same model as mine. Different color. Hers is a soft pearl white that screams elegance and subtle drama. Mine is midnight black because I prefer not to announce myself before I step out.
She slipped into the back seat with a quiet groan.
“I hate this,” she muttered.
“You’ll survive.”
“I know.”
The drive to her house was short. We have been making that same trip for years. The familiarity of it felt comforting. Safe.
Her home always feels like a second version of mine. Similar structure. Similar luxury. Different energy.
The gates opened smoothly as we approached.
And suddenly I realized something.
It had been a while since I had been here properly.
Not for a rushed visit. Not for a quick stop.
But to sit.
To breathe.
To exist.
The car came to a halt.
Camille wasted no time. She practically leapt out and hurried inside.
I followed more slowly.
The front door swung open before we even reached it.
“Elena Whitmore.”
I smiled instantly.
Aunty Louise.
She stood there glowing as always, her presence warm and effortless. She has the kind of beauty that does not need decoration. The kind that makes you feel safe just by looking at her.
She pulled me into a hug before I could even greet her properly.
“Look at you,” she said, holding me at arm’s length to examine my face. “You have grown thinner.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“I have not.”
She clicked her tongue.
“You don’t visit anymore.”
“I do.”
“You don’t.”
I laughed softly.
Camille was already halfway up the stairs.
“I’ll be back,” she called vaguely.
Aunty Louise shook her head.
“That girl. Always in a hurry.”
She turned back to me.
“You will eat.”
I had not even removed my shoes.
“I’m not that hungry,” I tried.
She ignored me completely.
“Sit.”
I obeyed.
There is something about her that makes disobedience impossible. Not because she is strict. But because she loves in a way that feels like sunlight.
Within minutes, food appeared. Snacks. Fruit. Something warm that smelled dangerously comforting.
“Aunty,” I protested gently.
“You will finish it.”
“I can’t.”
“You will.”
She sat across from me, watching as I reluctantly picked up a fork.
“How is your mother,” she asked.
“She is well.”
“And you.”
“I am alive.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“That is not an answer.”
I sighed.
She waited.
There is no hiding from Aunty Louise.
“She’s pressuring me about marriage,” I admitted finally.
A flicker of understanding crossed her face.
“She mentioned something.”
Of course she did.
Our mothers share everything.
“She gave me a deadline,” I added quietly.
Aunty Louise leaned back slightly.
“Your mother loves you.”
“I know.”
“She worries.”
“I know.”
“But she forgets you are not her.”
That surprised me.
I looked up.
“She forgets that your heart is not built the same way hers was,” she continued gently. “She married young and found comfort in it. She thinks that is the only path.”
I swallowed.
“I don’t want to disappoint her.”
“You won’t.”
“It feels like I already have.”
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
“You are twenty four, Elena. Not unfinished.”
Her words settled somewhere deep inside me.
“I just don’t believe in rushing into something because everyone else has,” I whispered.
“And you shouldn’t.”
I stared at her.
“You don’t think I’m selfish.”
“I think you are thinking.”
That made my chest ache slightly.
She smiled softly.
“Now finish your food.”
I laughed and obeyed.
By the time I was done, I was full in a way that had nothing to do with what I had eaten.
Camille reappeared, looking significantly more comfortable.
“You told her,” she accused lightly.
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“She asked.”
Camille rolled her eyes.
Aunty Louise stood.
“Go to your room,” she told her daughter. “And take Elena with you.”
We both stood.
Before I could leave, Aunty Louise pulled me into another hug.
“You are always welcome here,” she whispered.
I nodded against her shoulder.
“I know.”
And I meant it.
We climbed the stairs together.
Camille’s room is exactly what you would expect from someone as unapologetically girly as she is. Soft pink accents. Large vanity mirror. Cushions that look decorative but are surprisingly comfortable.
I sank onto her bed.
She flopped beside me dramatically.
“So,” she said, staring at the ceiling. “We survive another day.”
“For now.”
“You’re not actually considering finding someone just to satisfy them, right.”
“I don’t know.”
She turned her head toward me.
“You don’t know.”
“I don’t want to be forced.”
“You won’t be.”
“You sound very confident.”
“I am.”
I studied her face.
Sometimes I envy how certain she is about everything.
“I just don’t want to walk into my house and feel like I’m being measured,” I admitted softly.
“You’re not a project.”
“I know.”
We fell into silence for a moment.
The room felt calm.
Safe.
And for the first time since that morning, the tension in my shoulders eased.
Maybe that is what friendship does.
It does not solve your problems.
It simply makes them less loud.
I lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Do you ever think about marriage,” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“And.”
“I don’t want it forced.”
“Same.”
She smiled faintly.
“You know what’s funny.”
“What.”
“If they try to choose someone for you, it will probably be someone we already know.”
I scoffed.
“Please.”
“I’m serious. Our families are too intertwined for it to be random.”
I waved her off.
“They wouldn’t dare.”
She smirked.
“You’re their only child.”
Exactly.
Which meant they might dare more than I wanted to believe.
I pushed the thought away.
Right now, I was in Camille’s room. Safe from my mother’s watchful eyes. Safe from heavy conversations.
Just two girls lying side by side like we had done a thousand times before.
Whatever storm was brewing at home could wait.
For tonight, I would stay here.
And pretend that life was still simple.
- Writer
