A/N: I KNOW I TOOK LIKE 84 YEARS TO UPDATE SORRY KIDS. AND APOLOGIES FOR POTENTIAL TYPOS
She's truly struck out in the stupidity level, she thinks, poking at her French toast absently. She watches distractedly as her mother hands Sofi the syrup, and loses focus when the seven year old completely drenches the slices of bread.
What did Camila expect? For her neighbor to just barge through her window at 4am again?
(Camila won't admit that she was secretly hoping for this to happen).
Her thumb unlocks her phone, and she scrolls through her contacts, pausing in the L section.. She still has Lauren's number saved, despite never using it during the end of Camila's junior year. And the only reason she still has it is because she has this habit of hoarding people's numbers. If she looked hard enough, she's sure she'd probably find Austin's in there somewhere too.
Camila hovers over Lauren's name, before opening up a new message. She begins to type out an apology, before quickly erasing it.
Worst case scenario: Lauren has changed her number. Even worse of scenario: Lauren's deleted Camila's number and she's forced to deal with the awkward "who's this?" response.
Camila sighs, deleting the unsent message, and stuffing her phone back into her pocket. This is stupid. It wasn't even like they ended their quality time on a bad note. There wasn't any fighting or the usual unspoken negative tension.
Deep down, however, Camila knows better. And she doesn't think she can get that look Lauren gave her out of her head. As if Camila had just humiliated her in front of a crowd of people rather than just in the presence of two.
After she eats a little, Camila heads back to her room, though she knows her mother and Sofi's eyes on her retreating figure. She can distinctly feel the semblance of disappointment in her mother behavior. But she ignores it.
.
.
It's one of those days, Camila realizes, hours later, with her head buried beneath a pillow.
One of those days where time seems to move in a nauseating fast motion, yet feels as if it shifts at a snail's pace, matching the lethargic spell that falls over her.
The afternoon slow sinking sunlight settles through the half closed blinds, leaving the room in an orange glow. She reaches up and pulls the pillow off, eyes blinking blearily in the fading sunlight.
This used to be her favorite time of the day.
Mostly because the sun, the source of her of distaste for the Miami weather and her inability to wear practically eighty five percent of her autumn infested clothing, was leaving for a few hours. It was because it was the end of the day. The hustle and bustle of the mornings and the heated traffic of the afternoon disappear. People are coming home from work, school, wherever, exhausted yet resolute in returning home. It was the desired sigh of relief after a long day, painted into different shades of red and yellow and orange.
Camila turns away from the window. All it reminds her of now is how easy it is for her to pathetically waste away a day of her life.
She reaches for the pillow again, but stops when she sees Dinah, perched cross legged, at the foot of her bed.
"This is too depressing, even for you," Dinah says.
"Shut up," Camila groans.
"It's like you've taken five steps back," Dinah continues, tilting her head to the side. "I thought we were going out today."
"Well, we're not," Camila answers shortly, turning over on her stomach.
"We've got things to do though," Dinah persists. "Actually, we've got people to do, if you know what I mean," she adds suggestively.
Camila reaches for the pillow again, draping it over her head.
"You have to see Lauren today," Dinah says, her voice closer than before. "Come on!"
"She doesn't want to see me," Camila grumbles.
"Because you called her a slut?"
Camila sits upright and throws the pillow at Dinah. She watches as it goes right through her friend and topples over the edge of the bed. They both stare at it, silently for a moment, before Camila rounds on Dinah.
"I didn't call her a slut," she snaps.
"That's not what her face said."
"I already feel bad about it. You don't need to make it any worse," Camila sighs. "Besides, I'm always making the moves."
"The bad moves," Dinah chimes in unhelpfully.
"It's time she shows some interest."
"I like how you jump to this conclusion." Dinah moves to sit closer to her. "That she's just so interested in you."
"She wants to be my friend," Camila responds irritably.
"See, this is where you lose me. You want to hate her? But you want to be friends with her? Or you want her to like you enough to sleep with you or what?"
Camila flushes, rising from the bed completely to create as much distance between her and Dinah's playfully accusing stare.
"Oh, no you're doing that constipated look you get when you think too hard," Dinah says with a wince. She pats the empty side of the bed. "Come back. We'll watch some old videos again."
So they spend an hour going through Camila's saved videos. The same ones, the ones that they've both gone through more times than they could count. She knows Dinah's reasons for it. Tactical. Analyzing every detail and move projected on the computer screen in a way only athletes do. Camila, however, isn't sure why she still does it. Why she plays, rewinds, fast forwards and repeats almost every day.
It's the only routine, since the conception of this dumb list, which she hasn't broken or even thought of breaking.
Recording-Dinah, bronze skin reflecting off the bright sunlight and bright blue ocean, rips through the shiny surface. She rides the small barrel, a tiny speck from Camila's camera angle on the beach. Camila can hear herself through the recording, over the sound of crashing waves, chirping seagulls, and the murmur of people on the beach that day. She can hear herself cheer and giggle, and chant Dinah's name.
"The waves were weak that day," Dinah mutters from over her shoulder. "The waves are always weak here," she sighs dramatically. "Unless there's like a storm or something. I would've liked to go with Z to Cali.
"Like she would take you," Camila murmurs, moving over to play a different video.
"Hey we would have gone. We always planned to go to the west coast," Dinah says. There's something in her voice that doesn't settle well with Camila. "The dream was Waimea. Eventually save enough money to go to Hawaii."
Camila feels a lump form in her throat. She struggles to swallow it down as she tries to focus upon the recording. This is the first time she's heard Dinah speak like this. With a twinge of longing in her voice. It's the first time Camila thinks Dinah has ever spoken on this matter in a serious tone. It's the first time she catches a hint of bitterness in her friend's expression. It's the first time she sees the ache that twists in her chest reflected in Dinah's dark eyes.
But it's not the first time these moments come, as if the gravity of the situation falls upon her like an avalanche. It comes in small bursts. That tragic realization that Dinah hadn't even really lived much.
Dinah had never gone anywhere despite the constant comments about wanting to leave. She had expressed a lot of desires with wanting to see the world. Joking about going to Australia and seeing koalas. The UK (though Camila's sure it's only because the legal age to drink was 18).
They'd never even left Miami. Most of the memories that come to mind when she thinks of Dinah's life is within the small area of their neighborhood and the beach. There was never really any money for trips out of state, much less out of the city. Every opportunity would forever be taken away from Dinah.
She would be eighteen by now. Dinah probably would have gained that glamorized freedom one demands the moment they become legal. Or at least she's sure Dinah would've rubbed it in her parents' face that she would've been officially able to go into a club.
It comes in a slow lethargic moment - the moment Camila realizes that she, herself, is also eighteen. Has been eighteen for much longer than Dinah would have been.
Hell she could stroll down to the nearest liquor store and demand a box of cigarettes if she really wanted to. Not that she would. Those tobacco commercials with people's faces ripping off had pretty much traumatized her into never purchasing a pack.
But the point was that she could do it. If she wanted to.
And yet, what have these months accounted for? Absolutely nothing.
There was a whole other world out there that Dinah didn't and would never know. The familiar sand and waves of the local beaches would be the only thing Dinah would ever surf. Dreams of seeing the west coast, traveling would forever be out of her reach.
It's insulting that the very thing that brought life into her eyes was the very thing that took it all away.
Camila stops the video, earning a questioning glance from Dinah. But she doesn't say anything. It's like opening up a can of worms. More unwanted things to think about.
But even if she did want to, her thoughts are interrupted when a familiar tap comes from her window. It's almost absurd to say she recognizes the gentle knock, as if she memorized the motion in which someone's knuckles rap against the clear surface. It's even more ridiculous how the feelings of relief come flooding through her body with each approaching step towards her window.
Camila hates the way she feels her heart skip a beat as she pulls away the blinds to find Lauren Jauregui standing outside.
"Do you guys not know how to use doors or what?" Dinah probes as she also approaches the window.
Camila lifts up the lever and then they're staring at each other without the transparent barrier.
"Hi," Lauren greets nervously.
"Hi," Camila returns, stepping aside to let her neighbor in.
Lauren hesitates, glancing uncertainly through the open window. It's a stark difference to the past situation in which Lauren had just casually waltzed into her room at four in the morning.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," Camila begins.
"Don't worry about it. You didn't do anything," Lauren reassures, almost helplessly.
An awkward pause fills the room. Awkward, filled with more things Camila wants to say but doesn't know how to articulate.
"Come in," Camila adds, as the seconds of Lauren's lingering becomes even more awkward.
"Do you want to hang out?" Lauren blurts out.
And perhaps it's the way she says it- shyly and hopefully - as if she's hanging on every word Camila's answer could potentially entail. Or maybe it's the way Lauren's chews on her lip, a nervous tick that was undoubtedly picked up from Camila herself. Or perhaps it's because Lauren standing outside her window, staring at her with such a soft, timid gaze reminds her too much of the times Camila would stand outside Lauren's window. Just because Lauren's room wasn't that far away from hers. Just because she wanted to see her neighbor.
The thought makes Camila's stomach flutter. It makes her cheeks flush. And suddenly she is seventeen again, standing outside her Lauren's window, nervously strumming her guitar to her neighbor's latest song obsession.
It comes and goes like the waves down by the beach. It tickles in the way the wet sand sinks beneath her feet as the tide pulls away, water bubbling around her toes.
"Right now?"
"Yeah," Lauren responds. "Please?"
The please is so unnecessary. Camila would've gladly dropped everything to get out of this room. But the plea simply sets her resolve: that there is nothing she'd rather be doing than hanging out with Lauren Jauregui at this very moment. And the silly feeling is so incredibly stupid, but Camila brushes it off. She puts the annoyances away because she's not going to ruin today like she had managed to do so beautifully in nearly all of their most recent encounters.
No. Instead, she will smile and say: "Okay."
.
.
They decide to meet up at Lauren's house instead of having to explain to her mother how her neighbor got into her room. Camila only gives her mother five minutes for fussing and smothering, before she's zipping up her hoodie and darting outside the door.
Dusk has fallen softly in the neighborhood as Camila makes her way next door. The sky's reds have long faded, engulfed by lilac clouds brushed across its pale body.
The light on Lauren's porch is on, dimmed by the fading gleam of the end of the day. Camila barely presses her finger against the Jauregui's doorbell before the door is pulled open and Lauren stands there, smiling expectantly.
"Hi," Lauren greets breathlessly. She blushes softly, runs a hand through her hair and smiles.
"Hi," Camila returns, feeling her stomach bubble with nerves.
"Someone's excited," Dinah teases beside Camila.
"Come in. No one's home," Lauren says immediately.
Camila almost wants to believe it's said as a challenge. As if Lauren waits for the inevitable request that rolls out of Camila's mouth, but there isn't a hint of a smirk on Lauren's face. Camila decides to put the question to rest for now.
Camila follows Lauren, but questions when she suddenly leads her into the kitchen rather than her room.
"Thought we'd have a snack before adding more stuff to your list," Lauren answers Camila's unspoken question.
She watches silently, as Lauren rummages through the freezer. She has a vague idea of what she's looking for, and she tries not to assume because there is bubbling irritation surfacing in her system. Her suspicion is confirmed when Lauren pulls away with a blue otter pop in her hand.
"It's hard to find red. Chris practically eats these like candy," Lauren says, holding the end of the blue pop with her teeth, as she uses both hands to dig through the freezer again.
She doesn't understand what it is with Lauren and her need to just crack open everything from the past. So what if the red otter pops were her favorite flavor? So what if this was literally all they used to eat during summer vacation?
The forming irritation begins to seize up. Could they go once without any kind of reference to the past?
Well, no.
It hits her, as Lauren begins to stare at her worried. There's too much history here. And the moment she walked into Lauren Jauregui's room that night she should have realized it. The inevitability of facing it.
"Wait hah I found one!" Lauren nearly squeals, catching Camila off guard.
It's such a tiny, childish sound that comes from her neighbor it almost makes Camila smile. She feels her stomach flip pleasantly at the sound, and the stupid grin fighting its way on to her mouth. She'd almost forgotten that Lauren could be so adorable.
Wait...
As if that random train of thought deepens her sinking mood, she snatches the red pop from Lauren's outstretched hand.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Camila says as she tries to rip the package open with her teeth. "So are we going to cross something else off?"
"Ouch, Mila, I think I got like a second degree burn from that cold shoulder," Dinah comments.
At the confused, hurt look on Lauren's face Camila relents. "Thank you," she adds with a tiny smile. A peace offering. Lauren seems to accept this as she gestures for Camila to follow her.
Camila chews through her pop, as they head to Lauren's room without any more of an exchange of words.
"So I was thinking, we should go out driving tonight," Lauren begins, once they enter her room.
"Tonight? You're going to let me drive your car? Let's go now," Camila exclaims.
"I have to see this," Dinah sneers.
"Well my brother has the car right now. He should be coming home soon though."
"Uh, oh. This is sounding like a potential cock block," Dinah mutters. "Is that what you call it when it's two girls though? Taco blocko? Clam Jam? Clitoference?"
Camila turns abruptly to shoot Dinah a warning glare.
"I can keep going all night," Dinah says with a smirk.
Camila is on the verge of reprimanding Dinah, but Lauren speaks up before she has the opportunity to do so.
"You don't mind waiting right?" Lauren asks, uncertainly, and Camila realizes she probably looked insane randomly turning her back to her neighbor.
She hears Dinah giggling behind her, as if her friend has come to the same conclusion.
"That's fine," Camila responds through gritted teeth.
"Ooh do I detect some passive aggressiveness in your tone?" Dinah teases, but Camila doesn't offer that question a response.
Instead, she bites into her otterpop, eyes roaming around the empty room, trying to focus upon anything but Dinah rattling off in the background.
The annoyance begins to fade away as Camila takes in Lauren's room. She decides that this space is probably more disconcerting than her own room. It's as if she can't shake the fact that the room has been stripped of Lauren's personality and packed into boxes, shipped clear across the country, away from here.
Speaking of boxes...
Her eyes fall upon the ones stacked into the corner. One of which has been opened, revealing the books and other miscellaneous contents inside it.
"You can go through them if you want," Lauren mutters, gesturing towards the boxes in the corner.
"What? No I don't..." Camila sputters, feeling her face begin to turn red.
"I can tell you want to," Lauren responds flatly. "I was in the middle of going through them anyway. There's some stuff I have that's yours."
She stares at Lauren uncertainly for a couple of seconds, before Lauren rolls her eyes and dips into the boxes herself. Her neighbor folds down the flaps and slides one in Camila's direction. After another reassuring nod, Camila digs into the box, eyes hastily absorbing everything in sight into memory.
She's not really sure why she's so excited to go through Lauren's things. For someone who has an undeniable distaste for dwelling in the past, it's downright illogical for her to get such a thrill looking at old trinkets and mementos from her neighbor's pre-college days.
But the tiny feeling slinks its way into her head. The feeling that she's looking for something. What it is exactly remains even more puzzling to her irrational thought process.
She finds a pair of Lauren's old cleats still caked in red dirt from the softball field. She finds a few unreturned books from the local library (a copy of Peter Pan being one of them). She finds a slightly worn wooden chess board, along with the pieces in a matching wooden box.
"Talk about hoarder, huh?" Dinah murmurs, as she peers over Camila's shoulder.
But Camila is only half listening, as she lifts up her gaze to find Lauren staring at her with an inexplicable expression. Though, Camila can't decipher the contours of Lauren's face, the green gaze is undeniably heavy. It's loaded with something that makes Camila's heart skip. And thud. And skip. And thud again until all she's aware of is the irritatingly loud, nervous pounding ringing through her suddenly warm ears.
After a paused moment, Lauren finally clears her throat and turns away, as if attempting to preoccupy herself with something other than staring at Camila.
Camila, however, continues to watch her; her neighbor begins rustling through her half open suitcase until she pulls out dark fabric. When Lauren turns around and holds it up to her, Camila immediately recognizes it.
"This is your sweater," Lauren states, as if Camila couldn't deduce that herself. "You let me borrow it a while back..." Lauren trails off, holding up a black hoodie, with thick white drawstrings.
Camila remembers the day she lent it to her, nearly a year and a half ago. They were hanging around the docks at the pier with the rest of the girls, watching the sunset.
Lauren hadn't complained about being cold, but Camila was aware of the fact that she kept rubbing her arms for warmth. And in the end, she pulled off her sweater and offered it to Lauren. Despite the chilly weather, despite the fact that Camila was only wearing a tank top underneath, and despite the fact that she was freezing her ass off the entire night.
It didn't matter. Not when Lauren looked so good wearing her clothes.
Camila flushes darkly, turning away from the offered clothing.
"Keep it."
"But it's yours," Lauren begins.
"You didn't pull that sweater out of a box," Camila mutters, returning back to the box before her. The implications are blatant in her statement, and Lauren must realize it too because then she begins to blush.
"I accidentally packed it," Lauren responds almost defensively.
"I'm sure you accidentally wore it too," Camila says, feeling a smile form on her lips.
"Oh god no. I own my own sweaters thank you," Lauren sneers. "Besides, you're one to talk."
"What do you mean?" Camila asks, dropping the overdue library book she was leafing through.
"You still wear my clothes too."
"No I don't."
"Camila, I've literally seen you wearing my flannel a couple of days ago."
Camila's face burns. "That's my flannel."
Lauren shakes her head, lips pursed into a smug little grin. Camila looks to Dinah for confirmation – anything really. Yet all she is met with is a matching smirk and it doesn't take long to realize that the days she wore the red flannel was clearly a set up for this.
"Oh god," Camila groans, making Lauren burst out into a round of laughter. It's so sudden and so startling Camila becomes momentarily distracted by the noise. Her neighbor's laughter rings throughout the room, rolling out of her parted lips in a deep, rich tone and ending on a feather light note.
It's like Camila's forgotten the sound of her laughter. And perhaps she has and now she's simply soaking in the smoothness of it. The warmth of it. The pleasant, languid blanket the almost musical laughter creates around her.
And perhaps, in the moment Camila unintentionally reacquaints herself with Lauren's expression filled with mirth. And the way her green eyes crinkle into small slits as her lips stretch wide with each gesture of glee that falls out of her mouth. And the way the light flush spreads across Lauren's pale cheeks
And perhaps, this time, Camila welcomes the slow, tender affection that swells in her heart.
"I'm sorry," Lauren giggles softly, beginning to sober up. "Your face was just – it just looked hilarious."
"Ha....ha....ha," Dinah deadpans. "Mila, please don't tell me you guys are gonna start doing that thing where you say something dumb and Lauren thinks it's the funniest thing ever since sliced bread."
Camila wants to tell Dinah that sliced bread isn't even the least bit funny, but even if she were in a position to say something, the words die before they make it past her throat. The very same affection building in Camila's core seems to be mirrored in the way Lauren is looking at her presently.
"You know, even though we stopped talking," Lauren begins softly, as she lowers the sweater. "Would it be completely messed up to say that I missed this?"
Camila feels her chest ache pleasantly, in the best way. In that warm way she feels every time she's in the presence of her neighbor. As if she's just stepped inside her home after a particularly long day.
"You were my best friend, Camila," Lauren murmurs quietly.
Camila isn't entirely how they wound up talking about this. She isn't even sure when the atmosphere got so damn intimate, or when she got so close to Lauren. But she immediately leans away, back to the box sitting before her.
She begins shuffling absently through it, trying to ignore Lauren's green gaze and the rapid pounding of her heartbeat.
Calm down, Christ.
She spots something that grabs her attention and mellows her pulse.
"You bought a yearbook," Camila blurts out, as she grabs the object. A flicker of irritation hits her as she fumbles with the book. The irritation deepens when she realizes it's because her hands are shaking.
"Oh yeah, my parents made me. I wasn't really into it by the end of senior year."
The black surface is a little scuffed on the back, but the etched golden words still shine. She flips open the book, counting the pages in her head. Anything to distract from the stupid feelings that were threatening to overwhelm her a few seconds ago.
"Oh stop!" Dinah blurts out, before Camila can turn the page again. "There I am." She points down, over Camila's shoulder.
Camila glances down and sure enough, a wallet sized photo of Dinah is imprinted, along with the rest of their classmates. Her hand brushes against the smooth glossy page, fingers pausing over Dinah's face. Dinah is smiling widely, standing out from the portraits beside her of people looking bored, or caught off guard.
Dinah Jane Hansen is displayed in fine print beneath the photo.
Camila remembers every year Dinah trying to pick a fight with the yearbook staff for not letting her put her full name.
"I hate this picture," Dinah mutters sourly beside her. "I look like I'm holding in poop."
Of course Dinah thinks every picture taken is horrible if it wasn't taken with her own hands.
"You used to wear bows then," Lauren comments, startling Camila out of her reverie because her voice sounds a lot closer than Camila was initially aware of. Somewhere between Camila staring at Dinah's picture and hearing Dinah's self-deprecating comments, Lauren had moved closer.
A few inches separate their arms, as Lauren leans in to peer down at the book as well. Camila watches as Lauren's pale fingers run along the page, until her index points at a different picture a few last names before Hansen. In the C range.
And then Camila finds herself staring down at – well – herself. Her sixteen year old self with a wide, overbite smile, round face, and a side hair part, topped with a white bow.
A mixture of feelings surface, a mixture that doesn't seem all together good. In fact if she can pinpoint one feeling it's probably an oncoming wave of unsettling nausea. She exhales shakily, hoping Lauren doesn't hear her within their close proximity. Her hands begin to clam up against the smooth surface of the yearbook, palms sweaty as she fumbles to turn the page.
She ends up hastily flipping through the rest of the book, like one would do to those homemade animation booklets, ignoring Dinah's protests.
It isn't until she reaches the end pages that she lets out a tiny sigh of relief. Along the blank spaces various scribbled words in different writing and ink fills the page. It comes as an opportunity of diversion for her attention and focus. It comes as a convenience to suppress her building unpleasant mood.
Camila's eyes glance over all of the messages, beginning to regain her composure. "Class of 2014 was an original bunch," she snorts as she reads "don't ever change" for the umpteenth time.
Lauren scoffs. "I didn't even know half of those people."
The statement bothers Camila more than she's willing to admit, and it's only a small part that's willing considering the other part wants to pretend nothing is wrong. The larger part wants to dismiss the sense of guilt laced beneath the irritation. And the irritation develops once she's noticed a lot of girls signing their names with their phone numbers and little hearts throughout the book.
"They seemed to want to get to know you," Camila mutters sullenly, snapping the yearbook shut.
"And some of them did," Lauren acknowledges.
"What?"
"I'm kidding," Lauren giggles.
Camila tries not to let it get to her. But she has the distinct feeling Lauren wasn't kidding. At all. Which annoys her even more.
"It doesn't matter anyway. There was really only person I wanted to sign my yearbook."
"Ashley?" Camila asks petulantly, as she looks up at Lauren. But there isn't any trace of humor on her neighbor's face.
"No," Lauren says slowly, holding her gaze in a heavy stare. "You."
It's there again, appearing swiftly, like an electric current. The soft, warm atmosphere sinks over them. It falls over Camila dissolving the frustration.
"Well, it's a good thing I'm here right? Do you have pen?" Camila clears her throat abruptly. Lauren hands her one, as if expecting Camila to ask for it. Or maybe Lauren just carries pens around with her all the time.
(Camila seriously doubts that).
"Did you really just write your number?" Lauren questions flatly, after Camila finishes writing and hands Lauren back the pen. "I already have your number."
Camila tries not to show how pleased she is that Lauren's kept it for this long. Not that it should be anything to be so pleased about with apps managing to back up everything, making humanity ever so dependent on technology.
"I could have changed it," she responds airily.
"But you didn't," Lauren counters, lips tugging into a playful smile.
"And you still kept it," Camila adds, feeling a smile of her own grow.
"Of course I kept it. Why wouldn't I have kept it?"
"I still have yours too."
Lauren's face softens into something more serious. Something that suddenly has Camila's heart pounding and stomach flopping. Her hands curl into loose fists in her lap, yet despite this she knows very well they're trembling.
The air around them has turned hazy. A light filter has fallen over them, wrapping around the two in an intimate space.
Camila watches as green eyes glance down towards her mouth. Immediately she licks her dry lips and Lauren's eyes follow the movement. Trained on the tongue sweeping across her bottom lip.
Shit. Crap. Crap. Shit. Look away.
Camila swallows thickly. Her pulse races to a beat that she's not used to but has warmly familiarized herself with recently. An involuntary shiver courses through her body, despite how feverish she begins to feel. Despite the heat emanating from Lauren's close body. It's a teasingly small distance that relentlessly urges Camila to close.
Her eyes fall to Lauren's own lips. A scattered thought breezes into her head. One that has her blushing and biting her own lip in anticipation.
Because it's an irrational thought that shouldn't reduce her into this melting mess.
Because she swore that she was going to bury this thought accompanied with the feelings away a while ago, back at the end of junior year.
And because, despite vows of never considering it ever again, this isn't the first time she's ever thought of kissing Lauren Jauregui.
She knows this isn't going to be her last...
...if the fact that they've both started leaning in towards each other isn't an obvious indication...
.
.
A/N: What an awful place to end, right? Hahaha. Don't worry I've already written the next chapter. It's just a matter of making sure it all makes sense. So it'll be up very soon, you know as an apology for my updating incompetence.
Also, my roommate has been teaching me the wonders of wattpad, and apparently I can post messages so that my followers can read? Wow, crazy I know! So I'll make sure to take advantage of that in the future.
Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading and saying such nice things this fanfic! I didn't expect people to actually like it! IT'S REALLY NICE AND GREAT AND I'M SO GLAD AND WOW OKAY YEAH YOU GUYS ARE REALLY SWEET AND I DO READ ALL OF YOUR COMMENTS EVEN THE INAPPROPRIATE ONES (LOWKEY I'M STRIVING FOR THE SCISSORS EMOJIS SOON). THANK YOU SO MUCH :)
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K bye!!!