then
"I can't see this working out. Not as, like, a longterm thing. I just--I'm really sorry, Camila, but I don't see it." Lauren says. Her wet hair falls over her shoulder, a healing hickey on her neck that Camila sucked into her skin two nights before. She looks down at her coffee, cloudy with cream that she hasn't yet stirred, the spoon rigid in her fist. Her eyes are awake and aware.
Camila swallows, blinks when her vision starts swimming. "You're not looking hard enough." She says, voice choked. "This is working. This is it for me."
Lauren half-shrugs, half-shakes her head, making Camila wait as she nonchalantly takes a sip of her coffee, the coffee Camila made when she rolled out of bed, listening to Lauren sing in the shower, wondering if it would be a good day. It's hard to tell the difference between the good and the bad; hard to tell if the tension between Lauren's shoulders when she walks into the kitchen is because she had a hard time sleeping or because she's tired of Camila's feet tapping the linoleum floor as she pours whisked eggs into the skillet. Hard to tell if Lauren kisses her cheek before she sits at the breakfast bar out of habit or desire. Camila clenches her jaw, pushes her bangs back from her face and wills herself not to cry.
"Maybe," Lauren says finally, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "but, I mean, you know me. I'm honest. And I didn't enter this relationship with any intentions to make it last. I always figured you knew that."
Camila sets her mug down, bites her lip. "Lauren."
"Camila, I adore you. But I don't want to do this anymore. I'm packing up my things when I come back from work."
It doesn't make sense. She's almost saying that she loves her at the same time that she is blatantly saying goodbye.
now
"Are you leaving the house at all today?" Dinah's staticky voice shouts through the receiver, almost completely drowned out by the rumble of thunder outside. The crack of lightning flashes in the far left window of Camila's living room. She shrugs, knows Dinah will feel it.
"Why should I? It's pouring, and--"
"You always write best when it's raining, I know, I know." Dinah sighs, the sound of splashing and her squeal muffled against Camila's cheek as she tilts her head and squints her eyes at the open laptop on her lap. "Shit! I just ruined my new shooooes." Dinah groans. "You're not even worth all this, Walz. So help me God if you don't have my noodles when I get there."
Camila rolls her eyes. "Shut up, China. No one told you to come over."
"Well, somebody has to take care of you when you go into hermit-writer-mode."
"Whatever," Camila says. "Have fun getting poured on."
"Ramen!" Dinah shouts before hanging up, just as another rumble of thunder rolls through the sky.
Camila pushes her laptop of her legs and sighs, padding over to the kitchen slowly, savoring the way her feet stick to certain spots the floor where she's spilled coffee and never bothered to wipe it up. She's searching the cabinets she hasn't opened in months when she sees it: the mug she got Lauren for Christmas, specially made with one of her favorite quotes from one of her favorite blogs on tumblr, purplebuddhaproject.
It reads: "There is no greater misfortune than not knowing what is enough. There is no greater flaw than wanting more and more."
She thought it was witty when she got it, considering Lauren always had more than just one cup of coffee in the morning, and when she was wrapping it she could picture herself mocking Lauren with the quote whenever she went to get a second cup, a smug smirk plastered on her face when Lauren would roll her eyes and kiss Camila until her knees went weak and she didn't care anymore.
It happened, once or twice. Not exactly the way she imagined it, towards the end, when Camila's confidence started to wither and she said it with less playfulness, when Lauren would just huff irritably and drop the mug into the sink before practically stomping to the bathroom to get dressed for work.
Camila reaches for it instinctually, like she's reaching for a piece of Lauren. But her hands are shaking, and the words are blurring, and it's so ridiculous and stupid and she wants it to stop so bad that she drops the mug on the floor.
then
It's their third Christmas together, alone for once, and they spend it mixing rum and eggnog in their wine glasses like adults while wearing pajamas like children. They drunkenly tell stories from when they were kids, giggly and sloppy as Lauren kicks over her carton of Chinese by accident and Camila, in the process of trying to scoop the noodles up, elbows her glass off the sofa armrest and stains the carpet with coquito.
It's the best Christmas Camila has ever had. Easily.
Lauren gives Camila a moleskin journal with randomly pressed flowers in between the pages. She also gives her a CD with The 1975's entire discography burned on to it. Camila feels sheepish giving her only a mug and a simple ring with Lauren's birthstone.
But Lauren kisses her anyway, thighs bracketing her hips as she straddles her on the couch and tangles her hands in Camila's hair, Camila, the lightweight dork already drunk off of two and a half cups of coquito with badly cut bangs dressed in a onesie, and it rolls off her tongue accidentally.
"Love you so much."
Lauren leans back only slightly, her bottom lip still chapped and bitten between Camila's. "Huh?"
"I love you. 'M sorry." The words tumble out of her, too honest, too trusting.
Lauren's breath catches somewhere in her throat. Her voice is a loose floorboard. "Don't be sorry. Just--don't ask, okay? Don't ask for more than what I can give you." Lauren still has her eyes closed.
Her words burn like acid on Camila's lips, so she kisses her again to make the feeling go away.
She's too drunk to tell if it works.
now
Even with the mug shattered on the floor, Camila still feels the words burning into her hands like a mistake.
She debates what she should do. The most obvious and logical reaction is to break down and collapse on the floor, sobbing. Because she's dramatic and Lauren broke her heart like people squash anthills under their feet: unknowingly, unapologetically, all the time. And she's suddenly reminded of that picture of Lauren and her new girlfriend on Facebook--she thinks her name is Lucy, but it could be anything, really, by the way her tears distorted her vision--and it would be perfectly acceptable if she were to just break down, then and there.
But Camila doesn't. Her breathing is still ragged and her hands are still shaking but she sidesteps the shards of whatever she and Lauren had and pulls the bright package of noodles down from the counter.
She's fine.
then
"I just don't want to do it, Camila. Why is that such a big deal?" Lauren says, hand rubbing circles into her temple like speaking to her is the most stressful thing she's ever done.
"Because it's my birthday and that's what people dooooo," Camila slurs, staring at the bottom of her beer bottle almost puzzled, almost like she doesn't know how or why it's empty. "Dinah posted something for me. On Instagram. It was really long and nice and the picture was so nice. And! And Ally posted this super long paragraph, too. That was nice. People do nice things for people on their birthdays."
Lauren looks up from the slice of pizza on her plate and frowns. They're sitting at Camila's favorite pizza parlor at midnight and Camila is drunker than she's ever been.
"I got you the tiara that's on your head. I don't have to post something online for your birthday. It's just a day, Camila." Lauren says, tone patronizing.
Camila picks up her empty green bottle and examines it from all angles. "You know what I think? I think you're afraid to call me your girlfriend on social media. Yup. That's what I think."
It's like she just slapped Lauren across the face. "Wow." Lauren says. "That's--wow, Camila. I can't believe you would even say that drunk."
Camila sets the bottle back down, staring Lauren in the face with the same puzzled expression. "I would say it sober if I didn't love you so much. Loving you is, like, a job. It's hard."
"I know." Lauren says, but refuses to look at her. "It's late. We should get home."
She gets them a cab and wipes the makeup off Camila's face when she's too drunk to do it herself and kisses Camila good night when they're back in bed but it feels like a wedge has been driven between them. The next morning, and the next and the next after that, the feeling doesn't go away.
now
It's a thing: people stalk their ex's on Facebook. Camila knows it's a thing. She still doesn't feel any better, scrolling through Lauren's page, looking for meaning in the meaningless shit Lauren posts. She wishes she could wonder what she ever saw in her, but she can't, because she already knows. She fell for Lauren's mystery and her taste in music and her pretentiousness and the way she got poetic when she was drunk and her intelligence and her fucking green eyes. She knows.
Which sucks balls.
What sucks more: Lauren's girlfriend's name is Lucy. And she's all over Lauren's Facebook.
Camila scrolls through picture after picture, vacation after vacation, smile and smile and smile and smile and then: HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY VERY BEAUTIFUL GIRLFRIEND, LUCY VIVES!!!! stay gorgeous, babe. love you!!!!!
She swallows. There's a sea of nails crowding her throat.
She's not fine and she cries.
then
She can't stop crying.
She's been crying all day--on the kitchen floor and in her bed, in the shower and on the couch. It's intermittent and numbingly torturous.
But other than that, Camila's totally fine. Other than the fact that even as she sits, her knees curled up to her chest and sniffling, Lauren is shuffling around their bedroom, shoving all of her belongings into a big garbage bag like she can just neatly undo herself from Camila's heart, just like that.
It's--God, it's not fine.
Camila's knees are wobbly as she pushes herself up off the floor, feet stinging with imaginary pins and needles as her feet are flooded with blood. "Lauren?" She croaks, her voice wrecked.
Lauren edges out their--Camila's, now--bedroom doorway and sighs. "Yeah. Almost done here."
It's so not fine. It's horrible.
"Can we talk about this?" Camila starts, choking on the lump in her throat. "Please, Lauren, this is just so rash."
Camila hears Lauren huff from the hallway. "What's there to talk about? I told you everything I needed to this morning." Lauren comes out from the bedroom, then, face red with frustration. "It's not rash at all."
"It is," Camila starts, reaching up to touch Lauren's face, but Lauren flinches away. "Is there someone else? Is that what it is? You can tell me if there is."
Lauren scoffs, stepping away from her. "God, Camila. No. There's no one else. I'm doing this because I want to."
Camila feels anger bubbling in her. "That's it, then, right? Because you feel like making crazy fucking decisions, I have to deal with it, huh?" She watches as Lauren's lip starts to curl and doesn't feel any remorse. "I love you. I don't know how many times I have to say it for you to believe me."
Lauren shakes her head, knuckles turning white from how tightly she's gripping onto the garbage bag in her fists. "I believe you, Camila. That's not the problem."
She starts the move past her, but Camila doesn't let her. "You never said it back. I know, Lauren, that you're afraid of this, or whatever. And I've told you I'll wait. I'll wait."
Lauren's gaze is cold when she locks eyes with Camila, pushing Camila out of her way with her shoulder. "I don't you to. Okay? I don't want you to wait anymore."
Camila can't even get out anything else because Lauren is already walking down the hallway, shoving her feet into her sandals, and slamming the door behind her.
It feels like the scene should end there, likes that's how all movies go--but it doesn't. Camila's chest screams but she doesn't move, tears overflow onto her cheeks but she doesn't move. She looks down from the doorknob where Lauren's hand just was and her eyes fall on the metal bucket in the corner of the hallway, a black umbrella inside that doesn't belong to her.
She says to Lauren, who isn't even listening, "You forgot your umbrella."
now
She's the least fine she's ever been and Dinah decides it's the perfect time to knock.
Camila almost doesn't answer.
She almost sits on the couch and keeps crying and keeps crying and staring at the stupid smile on Lauren's face as she leans her cheek against her fucking girlfriend's neck and loves someone else and loves someone else and she almost doesn't answer the door.
Because the person is Lauren. Her person is Lauren. Lauren with her raspy morning voice, Lauren with no make up on, Lauren with her eyes closed and headphones in her ears and her lipstick smeared and blended with Camila's, Lauren who Camila loved and loved and lovedlovedloved and wishes she could forget. Lauren who swallowed Camila's heart and coughed it back up for fun. She almost, almost doesn't answer the door.
But it's Dinah. She takes a sharp, ragged breath and stumbles to the hallway, hand against the wall as her knees start to buckle under the weight of her heart shattering.
It's incredibly overdramatic.
She fumbles to open the door, still heaving, anyway.
Her throat is still crucifying the unspoken words in her throat and there are still hammers whamming into her vocal chords when she manages to unlock the door and let Dinah in. She's coughing and sniffing when Dinah gasps, "Walz?" and pushes the door open the rest of the way, taking Camila into her arms without thinking.
With tears burning like acid in her eyes, all Camila sees is Lauren's abandoned black umbrella. With Dinah's soft hushhushhushing in her ears, all Camila hears is the thunder growling hungrily in the heavens. With her thoughts collapsing like bridges during earthquakes, like dams during tsunamis, all Camila thinks is, I wonder if she's bought a new umbrella yet. I wonder if she's standing under it, right now, shielding someone else from the rain, like she used to shield me.