I actually have no idea where this came from. I'm sorry if this isn't that great. I was reading some Camaya posts on tumblr and then I got really sad and then this happened...
Like I said, I have no idea. But hey, I haven't had a One Shot in a while... so here ya go!
I hope you guys enjoy this and feel free to leave me a review if you want.
Thank you for reading :)
He's everywhere she turns. He's in hockey bags and charm bracelets and photo booth pictures stuffed deep within her desk, tucked under forgotten homework and crumbled up half-songs. But mostly he's in broken promises and faded memories.
She wants to forget him so badly; she wants the pain tugging at her heart to diminish, she wants the lump eternally residing in her throat, constantly threatening his name to escape her lips, to go away.
She wants to forget because when she can forget, she can move on.
Even across the world, in a foreign land that was supposed to be an escape, she sees him everywhere.
They were supposed to journey this together. They were going to spend the summer together, cuddled up on benches, stargazing into the wee hours of the morning spread out on a blanket, standing under the Eiffel Tower, braving the world together.
He was supposed to be here, with her.
Instead he accompanied her in the worst way possible. He sits beside her on the river, he blows on her ear as the wind traces over her body, he whispers to her at night that he's there, that he'll always be there.
But he isn't. She can't reach out and touch him. She can't feel his callused hands in her own. She can't ruffle his shaggy hair. She can't stare into those melting brown eyes and notice the raise of his infamous eyebrows before leaning in to feel his soft lips envelop her own in a timid, yet needy way.
Everyday she waits to forget something else. She's already forgotten his scent, the way he filled her nostrils after a particularly hard practice, the traces of hurriedly applied cologne consuming her.
She's forgotten his touch. She can't remember where he placed his hands when they hugged. Had he rested them on her lower back or around her neck? Did she intertwine her fingers with his always or did they cup each others' hands together, as though they were one another's life support?
One day, when she hears a Parisian couple whisper sweet nothings to each other, it strikes her that she's starting to forget his voice.
How she wishes she could hear that voice one more time. What she would give to just hear him confess his true feelings in her ear, just once.
She dials the familiar number, one of the things she will never forget, while sitting on a bench near the Seine river and feels her heart shatter within her chest when the line sends a disconnected signal wailing through her ear.
They finally did it. They finally disconnected the number.
Yet another tie he had to this world, gone.
She thinks about watching the video, the one she has spent hours memorizing, but thinks better of it. She can't handle the combination of his voice, happier than she ever remembered, and his face, contorting into all sorts of joy.
She wonders if she can't even move on in Paris, if she will ever be able to move on.
In the brief instances that she finally finds solace, he comes wafting back to her, stronger than before.
She tells Tristan that she can't pretend to date him because of the possibility of her meeting a new boy but she knows she's lying to herself.
She should still be furious at him; she should seek revenge and hope that he sees her, wherever he is, with another boy. That even in death he feels a pang of jealousy. He deserves it.
But she knows she couldn't do that. She knows she will never be able to do that.
Sure, she'll date, she'll have to. And she might even love again. But he'll always reside there, within the crevices of her heart, threatening to spill over, holding onto the greater part of her consciousness.
It will always be him that she loves. Whether she's in Paris or Toronto or New York, living out her dream as a member of the Philharmonic Orchestra. Whether she's involved with someone or not, she'll always be wishing he was with her.
As her memories fade, she knows what she felt for him, what she feels for him, never will.
Even on the days when her residual hatred comes into fruition, the days where she becomes irrationally angry and curses him for not seeing how much she needed him, how much she still needs him, she'll always have love for him.
She peers over the Seine and vocalizes her thoughts in little more than a whisper.
"Isn't Paris beautiful, Cam?"
The sun, hiding all day behind a bed of gray clouds, peaks around from behind an uncharacteristically white one and for a second, she feels the weight on her heart lift.
She feels him all around her and this time it's... comforting.
She feels at peace, she feels loved, she feels okay.
And so she gets up, deciding to make her way back to Tristan, deciding to explore Paris how she had always intended, determined to make the best of the day.
And she waits.
She waits for the inevitable dark cloud to regain it's rightful place in her heart.
She waits for the sorrow to follow.
She waits to feel alone and lost again.
But she realizes she wouldn't have it any other way. Because if she forgets, the pain would thankfully go away, but it would be as if she never knew him.
And knowing him was one of the best things she ever did.