national treasures| Charles Leclerc

twenty-seven

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For the first time in what feels like forever, Camille and I have a sense of ease. 

The tension that once hung in every conversation and every glance seems to have softened. 

It is not gone completely.

I do not think it ever will be.

But the sharp edges have dulled, replaced by something quieter, something that feels almost like hope.

Our recent talks feel different. 

They are not just surface-level exchanges or the strained kind of politeness we used to rely on. 

They are real. 

We have started sharing pieces of ourselves again, little glimpses of who we are now and who we used to be. 

Every moment of connection feels like a tiny step forward, and I find myself holding onto those moments more than I would like to admit.

I notice the way she smiles now, not guarded or forced, but real. 

It is rare, and it does not last long, but when it happens, it is enough to remind me of why I fell in love with her in the first place. 

She has not lost that spark, the fire that makes her Camille. 

If anything, it has burned brighter in the time we have been apart, and I cannot help but admire her for it.

I have learned to take things slow with her. 

I know I cannot rush this, that rebuilding trust is not something that happens overnight. 

Every step forward feels hard-earned, but it is worth it. 

She is worth it. 

And even though we are not where I want us to be yet, I feel like we are on the right path.

It is in the little things—the way she does not flinch when I stand close, the way her voice softens when we talk, the way she has started to let me see the pieces of herself she has kept hidden for so long. 

These small moments might not seem like much, but to me, they mean everything.

I still think about the past, about all the ways I hurt her and all the things I wish I could take back. 

But for the first time, I am not letting the guilt consume me. 

Instead, I am focusing on what I can do now, on the future we might be able to have if we both decide to fight for it.

We are not there yet. 

There are still walls between us, still wounds that have not fully healed. 

But for the first time, I feel like we are moving toward something. 

Something slow and steady, but full of promise.

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It's strange how things have started to shift between us, almost without me realizing it. 

At first, I could barely stand to be in the same room with him without the weight of everything that happened between us making it hard to breathe. 

But now? 

Now, the air feels lighter, the tension between us not as sharp. 

It's still there, but it doesn't cling to every word or every look the way it used to.

I notice it most when we talk. 

The awkwardness that once made me second-guess everything I said is slowly fading. 

When he laughs, it feels real now—not forced, not nervous. 

And when I smile, it's genuine. 

For the first time in what feels like a long while, I find myself not holding back. 

I feel the space between us shrinking, ever so slightly, until the old fears aren't so loud in my head.

I am starting to see him, really see him, not as the boy who broke my heart, but as the man standing in front of me now. 

It isn't easy, and there are moments when the past crashes into my mind like a wave I didn't expect, but it's becoming easier to let go of the anger, hurt, and mistrust that's been sitting with me for so long.

There are moments when he surprises me, like when he shares something vulnerable or shows that he still cares in ways I didn't think he would. 

And I find myself letting my guard down just a little bit more each time. 

He is patient with me, and that patience is starting to chip away at the walls I built so carefully around my heart.

I never thought I'd let myself feel this way again. 

I never thought I'd be this open to him again, not after everything. 

But as the days pass, as we spend more time together and those quiet, meaningful exchanges become more frequent, I start to realize something that scares me.

I'm not as guarded as I once was. 

My heart is more open to him than I've allowed it to be in years, and it's terrifying. 

Because if I allow myself to care about him, truly care, then I'm giving him the power to hurt me again. 

But at the same time, I can't help but feel the pull between us—the same pull I've always felt, no matter how much time has passed or how much we've been through.

I'm starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, it's time to stop running from what I feel and see where this might go. 

I'm not sure I'm ready to fully trust him again, but I do know that I'm not afraid to try.