CAMILLA RENÉERENEE'S MANSIONFRIDAY.*Day Nine.*I spat the paste in my mouth, gobbling a little water down my throat to rinse what it eft of it.It's been nine days in here and with each that passes by, the knot in my chest grows tighter. On one hand, the bond with my family seems to have gotten better.Mother and Father are making plans to return to work. I may have forgotten to mention they're both real estate agents, hence the sweet deal for a house we could bag. Four rooms. A ridiculously enormous master bedroom, a large living room, a spacious kitchen, the perfect house.*In hindsight*That's what it remains to me, a house. I still couldn't stomach what happened over the last week.After Dylan's abrupt switch, followed by ignoring my very existence during class, I came to your conclusion that Kyle's words might be correct. I've passed denial, can't recall the other crappy stages, now I just need

CAMILLA RENÉEFRAT HOUSE.FRIDAY EVENING."So the ski topples over me and I dug straight into the fricking cold snow and my friends are mostly taking videos and laughing their heads off. None of them helps me and that's why I never go skiing again."Jimmy finishes his story, and I threw my head back, still reeling with laughter. Staying with him has been so much fun. He's himself. At least, I think he is. He's not bad in the eye as well. Curly brown hair. Pink, kissable lips that most girls would be drool over. Tanned skin. Muscles underneath that brown shirt he's wearing. He's also tall, which is the first thing girls look out for.He doesn't mind telling me how much he hates skiing because of that impression. His hand is also slung over my shoulder. I don't think I mind that little contact.Maybe it's the alcohol flowing through my veins, reaching my brain and making me less uptight, or just maybe I actually want this.*Or you're lo

CAMILLA RENÉEEIGHT MONTHS LATER.-CAL-UTUESDAY.California University, or as most people like to call it, Cal-U. One of the finest institutions in the entire country, competitive as well, but getting into not that difficult with my final year grades. I had nothing distracting me as well, enough time to study. I could've gotten into Harvard if I wanted, but Cal-U is hours away from home. The skies aren't that cloudy. Winter isn't freezing and Miranda's here. It's perfect.Another reason may just be because a certain someone had no interest in Cal-U, so our paths may never cross again.I'm holding a box of clothes staring at accommodation 205, my room. A lot changed in eight months. I cut my hair, reduced it to shoulder length. I almost dyed it dark if it wasn't for dad's lecture. I became distant. When it was time to leave, I packed my stuff in boxes and left without thinking twice."Camilla!"Miranda squealed behind me, her e

CAMILLA RENÉECAL-U9:42 AM.I half expected a shocked expression over Miranda's face to mirror mine, but when I ducked my head back, she was nothing but annoyed. She didn't see him.Did I imagine him? Negative. I know what I saw. I'm sure of it."Camilla. Are you okay?"Jimmy asks, reaching for my arm. No.This is confusing enough. I recoil at his touch, folding my fingers together.Miranda glares extremely hard. Oh God, my head is spinning. The entire environment is spinning."Jimmy, why don't you give Camilla a tour of the university?"It's my turn to glare. I already know every inch of the place.Before any protest can spill out from my mouth, Miranda tugged me towards him, revoking the tiny amount of space I put."Camilla, may I talk to you a second?"Again, she's jerking me off without waiting for an answer."What is wrong with you? Jimmy is great! Why don't you want Jimmy?"

**CAMILLA RENÉE**Silence. The new wall clock Miranda had hung in our room was the only thing keeping this place from mirroring a graveyard.I lingered for the next phase of this discussion. You know the kind that involves — they already broke up. I badly wanted to tell you. You weren't in a good place. Those sticks.I wait. My patience is wearing thin. My knuckles are turning white at the rate I'm squeezing them at. My forehead is forming two to three lines of crease, but I wait.I don't speak first. No—that would show weakness and I am not weak. I've not been weak in eight months.Yet my best friend stands at her corner of the room, headshot down, so I can't get a good look at how she's coping, but I refuse to feel an ounce of guilt for her. I won't allow it."I'm sorry."She blurts, and I explode.Those words are part of my suggestions and it tips me off the mental cliff I've been hanging on to."You