Cameron was steady. That was the word I kept coming back to.
He wasn't intense or overwhelming. He didn't challenge me the way Kelvin once had—no midnight debates about books or impromptu road trips just to find the best pie in the state. But he made things easy.
Our relationship unfolded like a checklist. First kiss. Weekend getaways. Meeting his parents. Sharing a Netflix account. We worked well together. No drama. No chaos.
Except inside me.
Samira noticed it before I did. She caught me staring out the window during our study sessions or zoning out mid-conversation. Once, she said, "You know you're allowed to miss someone without wanting them back."
I pretended not to understand.
But I did.
Because the truth was, I didn't just miss Kelvin
I missed the way I felt when I was with him.
Safe. Seen. Entirely myself.
Cameron saw the version of me I let him see. The version I curated.
The version that didn't whisper Kelvin name in dreams.
Academically and professionally, I was thriving.
I landed a prestigious internship. Graduated early. Got offered a full-time job before walking across the stage. I bought my first car. Paid off a chunk of my student loans. Built a clean, upward trajectory.
Cameron moved in. Samira moved to New York. I was officially an adult.
But I still hadn't told Cameron the truth.
About why I left home.
About the night that changed everything.
About kelvin
I told myself it didn't matter. That it was in the past. But every time Cameron touched me too gently or said he loved me with a sigh instead of a spark, a memory flared Kelvin fingers on my skin, the rough heat of his mouth, the confusion, the guilt, the craving.
I drowned those memories in work. In spreadsheets and pitch decks. In happy couple photos with filters and curated captions.
I said yes when Cameron brought up rings.
But I didn't set a date.