Hands to Myself ➰ M.D| ✓

Utopia

The costume room was empty, except for the rows and rows of material filled racks, shedding loose strings, sequins, or buttons. It smelled like hot glue, that was because Camille was busy putting a new implement into her scrapbook. The photo of the rack of clothes from the day before was now plastered between a photo of Katherine's dog, Sophie, and Pierson's bouquet of flowers (which now had a large red X drawn over it).

She thought she would miss Pierson, but evidently, she didn't. In fact, he hadn't crossed her mind in over 18 hours. He hadn't called, or texted, which meant that he knew as well, that this relationship was finally over. Camille should have been sad, she felt guilty that she didn't feel any wisp of sorrow or anxiety; but she felt as though she had just climbed Mount Everest and stood triumphantly at the top.

She kept those pictures of Pierson, she kept every single photo in that scrapbook, but she made sure to deform it in a way. She marked the photos with Xs, scratched out Pierson's eyes, and colored in his figure with black sharpies. It was a reminder to herself to never, ever, ever get involved with somebody like him ever again.

Camille was so focused in her work, she didn't hear footsteps coming in behind her. That, and she had music playing in her ears. She was listening to Halsey's new album, Badlands, it was proving to be a methodical life line in her post-breakup position.

She suddenly jumped when somebody placed their hand on her waist. She whipped around and pulled out her earphones, but she was relieved to find it was only Matthew. She was looking at her as though she was some cartoon character out of an odd television show. He didn't expect her to have that reaction.

"Jumpy much?" he asked, trying to bite back his grin. Camille just rolled her eyes.

"I wasn't expecting anybody this early,"

Matthew looked over her shoulder as she continued to work. He chuckled lightly at the polaroid photo of Pierson in swim trunks, but Camille had drawn on a pair of devil horns, a long red mustache on his face, and a set of boobs on his chest.

"Somebody's taking the single life pretty well," he said.

"Call it a coping mechanism," she replied, "How are you enjoying your single life?"

He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her, "Not as bad as I thought it would be. But the only downside is that my sis wants to set me up with one of her school friends," he sighed. Camille let a smile form on her lips.

"Have you met this girl?" she asked him.

"No, I told her I wasn't interested. I got my sights on someone else," he leaned in closer, whispering into her ear and sending light, tingling shocks down her spine. Camille pushed down her shiver and turned to him.

"I thought we agreed to keep us as friends?" she asked quietly.

"That's what we agreed on, but that's not what we want," Before she could withdraw her mind from its far places, his arms were around her. She felt the rush of vulnerability, the sinking yielding, the surging tide of warmth that left her limp. He leaned in and kissed her, softly at first, and then with a swift gradation of intensity that made her cling to him as the only solid thing in a dizzy swaying world. His insistent mouth was parting her shaking lips, sending wild tremors along her nerves, evoking from her sensations she had never known she was capable of feeling. And before a swimming giddiness spun her round and round, she knew that she was kissing him back.

-

Cam's eyes shot open. The room was pitch black, except for the glimmering skyline lights of the city. With a heavy heart, she sighed in realization. It was a dream, it was just a dream.