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1238 Words
CHAPTER TWELVE
TEMPORARY FREEDOM
ISABELLA
The silence felt different. Not empty. Not heavy. Just… quiet. For the first time since I arrived, the house didn’t feel like it was watching me. No lingering presence. No awareness sitting just beneath my skin. No voice slipping into my thoughts when I least expected it. Just space. Clean. Open. Mine. And God, I needed it more than I realised.
“He’s gone.” Camille said it like an announcement. Like a victory.
We were in the kitchen, sunlight spilling through the wide windows, painting everything gold. She was leaning against the counter, sipping coffee like she hadn’t just casually shifted the entire atmosphere of the house.
“I know,” I said, reaching for a glass.
“Why do you sound relieved.”
“I’m not…”
“You are. But it’s okay. Because I am relieved too. I love my dad but I need space. We need space.” She has no idea how true that statement was. “He’ll be gone for a week,” she added. “Maybe more if the meetings drag.” A week. Seven days. Seven full days without…Stop.
“That’s… good,” I said.
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us.”
She smiled, slow and knowing. “Then we’re making the most of it.” That should have worried me. It didn’t.
—
Day one started simple. Beach. Music. Sun. The kind of easy rhythm I hadn’t realised I’d been missing. We spent hours by the water, Camille stretched out like she belonged there, while I actually got in for once. Not just dipping my feet in. Not just watching. Swimming. Floating. Letting the ocean pull the tension out of my body piece by piece.
“Look at you,” Camille called from the shore. “Finally acting like a human.”
“I’ve always been human.”
“Debatable. You’ve been acting like a stressed-out ghost since you got here.” I rolled my eyes but laughed anyway, pushing my hair back as I walked out of the water.
“Maybe I just needed better company.”
She gasped dramatically. “Are you saying I’m the problem?”
“Shocking, I know.”
“I’m offended.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
By the time the sun started to dip, everything felt… lighter. Not fixed. But quieter. Like my thoughts had finally stopped shouting over each other. We showered, changed, and ended up sprawled across her bed with a bottle of wine between us, music playing softly in the background. “This is what you needed,” Camille said, lying on her stomach, chin propped up on her hand. “Not Paris. Not Julien. This.”
“Maybe,” I admitted.
“Not maybe. Definitely.”
I took a slow sip of wine. “You say that like you’ve been right about everything.”
“I usually am.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me.”
I smiled slightly. “Unfortunately.” She grinned. Then her expression shifted, just slightly. More curious. Less playful.
“So,” she said, drawing the word out. “Are we going to talk about it?” My stomach tightened.“Talk about what?”
“You. Being weird.”
“I’m not being weird.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
She stared at me for a long moment. “You’ve been off since you got here,” she said, softer now. “And don’t say it’s just Julien, because I know you better than that.” I looked down at my glass.
“I’m just… adjusting.”
“To what?” Everything. Nothing. Him.
“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “New place. Being away for so long. It’s a lot.” She didn’t look convinced. But she didn’t push. For once.
“Okay,” she said finally. “We’ll go with that.” Relief slipped through me, quiet but real.
“Good.”
“But,” she added, sitting up suddenly, energy snapping back into place, “if you’re ‘adjusting,’ then we’re doing it properly.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“It is.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Camille.”
“No overthinking. No hiding in your room. No pretending you don’t want to have fun.”
“I do want to have fun.”
“Then prove it.”
I sighed. “How?” Her grin widened.
“We’re going out tonight.”
I groaned immediately. “We just got back.”
“And?”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” I threw a pillow at her. She caught it easily, still smiling. “Get dressed,” she said. “Something reckless.”
“I don’t own anything reckless.”
“You do now.” She tossed something at me. I caught it. Then stared.
“This is barely a dress.” When did she even get this?
“It’s perfect.”
“It’s illegal.”
“It’s fashion.”
I gave her a look. “You’re insane.”
“And you’re wearing it.”
———
Two hours later, I was standing in front of the mirror, questioning every decision that had led me here. The dress clung. Everywhere. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t safe. It was bold. And for some reason… I didn’t hate it.
“You look hot,” Camille said from behind me.
“I look exposed.”
“Same thing.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“You will be.” I met my own gaze in the mirror. For once, I didn’t see someone holding back. I didn’t see hesitation. Just… Possibility.
“Fine,” I said finally. “Let’s go.”
The night felt different. Not like I was trying to escape something. Just… living. We went to a different club this time. Louder. Messier. Less polished. Better. Camille disappeared into the crowd like she always did, dragging me with her until I stopped resisting. Music. Lights. Movement. No thinking. No analysing. No him. Just this. For the first time in days, I wasn’t waiting for anything. Wasn’t looking over my shoulder. Wasn’t anticipating a voice that wasn’t there. And it felt good. Dangerously good. Like I could actually forget. Like whatever had started… Could fade.
“See?” Camille shouted over the music, grabbing my hand. “This is what I meant!” I laughed, breathless, letting her spin me.
“Okay,” I admitted. “This is fun.”
“I’m always right!”
“Don’t push it.”
———
Hours later, we stumbled back into the house, laughing too loudly, shoes in hand, completely exhausted.
“This,” Camille said, collapsing onto the couch, “was a success.”
“Agreed.”
“Tomorrow we do it again.”
I groaned. “I might actually die.”
“You’ll survive.”
“Barely.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
That night, as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, It was quiet again. But this time, it didn’t feel like something was missing. It felt… Peaceful.
And for the first time since I got here, I slept. No dreams. No interruptions. No lingering thoughts I didn’t want to face. Just rest. Just silence. Just me. And maybe… Just maybe, That was enough.
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