"My Cam?"
Oh, brilliant, Harry. Just brilliant. The words jumped out of my mouth like they had their own Tinder profile. That has to be a world record for "Most Inappropriate Nickname Given to a Total Stranger." And not just any stranger—a client. What level of flirting is this even? Flirt Level: Desperate Puppy? Honestly, I need a refund on my self-control.
It's been over two hours, and I'm still thinking about Camila. Is it bad to admit I've got the emotional range of a rom-com lead? I mean, I fall hard and flirt harder. But come on, she's everything. The vibe? Electric. The smile? Illegal in twelve countries. She practically glows. If sunshine became a person and wore heels, it'd be her.
Anyone with eyes would want her. And unfortunately, people with eyes are everywhere. She has to have someone already, right? A boyfriend. A fiancé. A personal trainer who "just lives with her temporarily." Honestly, I wouldn't blame her. But still, a guy can dream. And maybe, just maybe... she noticed me too.
Barely above a whisper, I let out a quiet plea—"God, I hope she's not taken." It felt foolish, maybe even childish, but I meant it. After all the running, the closing off, the pretending... maybe it's time to give this fragile thing called love one more chance.
Just as I started to believe in the possibility again, my phone buzzed—a silent reminder that life wasn't pausing for my emotions. A list of trip requests flashed across the screen, reality tapping on my shoulder. "I'll be with you shortly," I replied to the next client, even as my heart lagged behind, still tangled in thoughts of her.
I shifted the car into reverse—and that's when I saw her. Lilian. The name alone sent a wave through my chest. There she was, reflected in my mirror like some cruel joke from the universe. Six months. It's been six whole months since she walked away from a four-year story we both wrote—well, I thought we wrote together. And yes, she ended it. Not me.
Funny how healing feels like progress until a familiar face drags you right back to the starting line.
I froze. One hand on the gearshift, the other tightening around the steering wheel like it could anchor me to the present. She hadn't noticed me yet—or if she had, she was doing a damn good job pretending otherwise.
Her hair was shorter now. Lighter, too. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was her. Maybe she had changed in all the ways I hadn't. My foot hovered over the brake, heart pounding loud enough to drown out the radio.
Do I stay? Do I leave? What does it even mean to move on if the past can still paralyze you like this?
My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts—conflicting emotions, unspoken words, memories I tried hard to suppress. But reality snapped me back into place the moment my phone beeped. The screen lit up with a client's name. Duty has called again. A heavy sigh escaped me. I almost lost control of the wheel—just missed scraping my bumper by inches. That moment of distraction could have cost me dearly.
Without a second thought, I drove off. Fast. Swift. Determined. It was the best decision I could make—to leave before I got entangled in Lilian's web again. You know what they say about genuine love: it never truly dies. And on a day like this—when fate brought Camela my way—I couldn't afford to get emotionally derailed.
As I exited the parking lot, I caught a glimpse of Lilian in my side mirror. She was waving. A small, almost involuntary hiss—steups—escaped through my teeth. Not because she waved. But because I lingered too long in that moment. I should've left the second I sensed the emotional weight creeping in. I overthink everything, don't I?
Truth be told, Lilian left more than just a dent in my heart. She tampered with something deeper—my trust, my willingness to commit again. She left me tangled in doubts, questioning if I'd ever be able to love freely or wholeheartedly again.
You can't imagine what it feels like to be shattered when you had everything planned—to settle down, to build a future with the woman you thought was the one. And while I try to pin the blame on fate or timing, part of me knows I had a role to play. A few months before she ended things—yes, she ended it—I was constantly on the move. Business trips, long nights, back-to-back engagements. That was peak season on the island. Tourists were flooding in like tidal waves, and I had to ride that wave while it lasted. The money was too good to ignore. And I did it all for the future—for us.
But here's the contradiction—I also believe I wasn't wrong. That wasn't who I was all the time. I only became that man because duty demanded it. Because someone had to take charge.
And maybe—just maybe—she forgot. Forgot that every time I picked up the tab, it wasn't out of obligation but out of care. That she was part of those bills I covered without hesitation. Willingly. Lovingly. Because that's who I am. The kind of man who believes that love is shown not only in words but in the quiet, consistent gestures—the unseen sacrifices.
Her hair appointments? Paid for without her ever needing to remind me. The skincare products that lined her bathroom shelf? I made sure they were restocked before she noticed they were running out. The makeup she used to feel confident, the clothes that made her feel beautiful—I handled it all. Not to impress, not to keep score, but because I wanted her to feel supported. Cherished. Pampered.
Even the little things, like her favorite snacks, a bottle of perfume she once casually admired, or a cozy sweatshirt she mentioned liking—I got them for her. Not because she asked, but because I paid attention. Because I cared enough to notice. That's the kind of love I gave: quiet, steady, and deeply intentional.
No, I wasn't perfect. I didn't always get it right. I may not have said the flowery words she longed to hear or crafted the grand romantic gestures movies sell us. But I was present. In the ways that truly mattered. I gave what I could, with the heart I had. And maybe that should have counted for something.