Camila's POV
The thing about old habits is that they sneak up on you.
One second, I was standing in the kitchen, staring at the cupcake tray with only three survivors left, and the next—I was scrolling through our old texts.
Me and Anthony. Before.
God, we used to talk about everything. Random memes. 3 a.m. dreams. Panic about midterms. Future plans. Stupid things, serious things, and things that probably didn't matter to anyone but us.
I stopped scrolling when I hit that photo — the one from a couple months ago, sun-drunk and half-laughing, his arm around my shoulders like we belonged to each other. Like we knew what we were doing.
I locked the screen.
Put the phone down.
Took a deep breath.
"Nope," I muttered out loud. "Not doing this again."
But my brain had other plans.
Because I could still feel it.
The weight of his palm on my cheek.
The way his eyes didn't shift, even while he was on the phone with someone else — that girl he doesn't even know where he stands with.
And then that forehead kiss.
Who does that?
Who kisses someone like they matter and walks away?
The worst part is, it wasn't dramatic. It wasn't desperate. It was gentle.
Like something tucked in the pages of an old book.
Like something you only do when you mean it.
And it messed me up more than I wanted to admit.
I finally peeled myself off the couch and went upstairs to shower.
Hot water. Steam. Silence.
When I stepped out, I noticed the red light blinking on the hallway answering machine.
Only one person still left voicemails anymore.
I hit play.
Precela:
"Hi, sweetie. Just checking in. Sorry I missed your call earlier — Dean had me running around all morning. He said he already sent Anthony over with the documents, so I hope you got them. I should be home late tonight. Love you. Don't wait up."
My breath hitched.
So that was the package.
The folder he'd left. The one I hadn't even touched.
Of course it wasn't something new. Of course it had always been that.
But for some reason, it felt like more.
Maybe because it came with silence.
With closeness.
With a memory.
I walked back downstairs and picked up the folder from where it sat on the edge of the coffee table — exactly where he left it, untouched, like it had been waiting on me.
I opened it, flipping through the papers mechanically, pretending I was just reading. Pretending I wasn't looking for something else inside.
A note.
A scribble.
Anything.
But there was nothing.
Just official forms and that familiar handwriting on the labels.
Still, I stared at it like it held answers.
Like it could explain why a simple delivery felt like a confession he hadn't made out loud.
I sat back and let the quiet press in again.
It was past midnight now.
And I couldn't sleep.
Not because of the documents.
Not because of the voicemail.
But because of the way he looked at me like he remembered everything.
Like it still mattered.
And maybe the worst part?
So did I.
Anthony's POV
I couldn't sleep.
Not because of Kara. Not because of work.
Because of her.
Camila.
That forehead kiss had been a mistake — or maybe it hadn't. Maybe it was the one honest thing I'd done in months.
But now I didn't know where to go from here.
I'd kissed her like we never ended. Like we were still us.
And she'd let me.
She didn't push me away.
Didn't say a word.
But silence is dangerous. It lets you hope.
I sat on the edge of my bed, thumb hovering over my phone screen. I'd opened her contact three times already and chickened out each time.
What was I even going to say?
Hey, remember when I kissed your forehead like a lovesick idiot? Wanna talk about it?
I sighed and leaned back against the headboard.
That girl messes me up — always has.
And yet, even now, after everything, I wanted to see her again. Not by accident. Not through awkward deliveries or missed calls.
For real.
I needed an excuse.
Something small. Casual.
A reason that wouldn't look like I was falling back into her orbit — even though I clearly already had.
Then I remembered.
The shirt.
It was stupid, but also perfect. A grey T-shirt I'd left at her place months ago — soft and worn-in, the one she always used to steal when we were together.
I texted her before I could second-guess myself:
Anthony:
Hey.
Random — but I think I left my grey shirt at your place before the breakup.
The one with the tiny bleach stain near the collar.
If you still have it, would you mind bringing it to the creeks above the river?
Around 7 tomorrow?
I stared at the message.
Not exactly poetic.
But honest enough to be real.
I hit send.
My heart thudded, hard and loud, like it wanted to jump out of my chest.
All I could do now was wait.
Wait for her reply.
Wait to see if she still cared enough to show up.
Wait to find out if that forehead kiss meant anything at all.
Camila's POV
The message came in just past one.
Anthony:
Hey.
Random — but I think I left my grey shirt at your place before the breakup.
The one with the tiny bleach stain near the collar.
If you still have it, would you mind bringing it to the creeks above the river?
Around 7 tomorrow?
I stared at the screen, unmoving.
There it was.
Not a hey, I miss you.
Not a can we talk?
Not even a sorry or I've been thinking about you.
Just a shirt.
The one he used to wear when he stayed over.
The one I always stole because it smelled like him.
The one I'd refused to wash for two weeks after he left, hoping it'd keep the memory of him intact a little longer.
And now he wanted it back.
Of course he did.
I blinked, but the tears were already welling. That's the thing about hope — it hides in the smallest places. In the silence. In the way he looked at me. In the voicemail. In that stupid folder.
And I'd let myself believe.
For what?
For this?
I threw the phone down on the bed and stood up too fast, breathing hard like my chest forgot how to work.
"Fine," I whispered, swallowing the lump. "You want your stuff back? You can have all of it."
I went to the closet, yanked open the doors with more force than necessary. His jacket was still hanging there — soft, navy, a little worn around the cuffs. I shoved it into a tote. Then the book he'd lent me and never asked for. The charger. A bracelet he left on my bathroom counter. A note he once scribbled something stupid on, folded and stuck into one of my textbooks like a surprise.
None of it was big.
But all of it felt big.
He hadn't asked for anything except the shirt.
Still, I figured — if he was drawing a line, I might as well help him make it bold.
I reached for the drawer where I thought the T-shirt was. It wasn't there.
I checked the laundry bin. Nothing. Then the floor near my bed. Still nothing.
And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.
I was wearing it.
The grey T-shirt.
His T-shirt.
The one with the tiny bleach stain near the collar. The one that still made me feel safe.
I froze. My knees buckled before I even registered it, and I sank to the carpet like the air had been ripped from the room.
A sob tore out of me before I could stop it. My hands curled in the fabric at my stomach like I could hold him through it.
God, I was so tired of pretending.
I loved him.
Still.
Stupidly.
Unfairly.
Honestly.
Even after everything.
Even though he was the one who ended it.
Even though he walked away like that forehead kiss meant nothing.
I was afraid.
Because what if this was just another goodbye in disguise?
With shaking fingers, I grabbed my phone and typed back.
Camila:
Sure.
7 at the creek it is.
Short. Dry. Safe.
I hit send and dropped the phone.
Then I curled in on myself on the floor, the fabric of his shirt clutched to my chest like it could protect me from the ache.
I didn't bother getting up.
The night stretched long around me, heavy and quiet.
And I cried myself to sleep —
still wearing the shirt.
Still loving him.
Still afraid .