a sum of small things | camren (au)

the second year | april - june

If Le Sacre Du Printemps has taught you anything, it's that some things are so forceful that you couldn't stop them if you tried. Watching it now, seated in the London Royal Opera House, you're reminded of it once again.

You couldn't stop it, if you tried.

Not now. Not then.

:::

april

:::

You've got a show to dance.

There's a low drumming in your ears when you wake up. Brad's arm is heavy on your stomach, his skin too hot and sticky against yours. You slowly push him off, careful not to wake him up, and then you stumble through his messy room into the bathroom. As soon as you catch sight of yourself in the mirror, your stomach clenches painfully and the next thing you know you're on your knees in front of the toilet, throwing up.

You can't even look at yourself.

After you've finally stopped shaking, you pour water into a glass and bring it to your lips. It cleans your mouth but not your body, so you make yourself step into the shower, closing your eyes and trying not to think as you force Brad's shower gel into your skin. The scent of it makes you feel worse.

You slip back into your black dress - taken off of you two times in the past eight hours - ignoring how the fabric on your skin makes you feel dirty and uncomfortable.

You leave, before Brad wakes up.

The city is like a maze, a contradictory mess of people's different lives mashing together; some only just leaving the clubs, drunkenly stumbling home, shoes in their hands, some already on their way to Sunday brunch, all dressed up and sparkling.

When you walk into your dorm room, Normani is on her bed reading a book. As soon as her gaze falls on you, it's like she senses it, because her eyes go wide and she says, "Lo..." and you feel like you're falling, like you're going to pass out, but Normani jumps up and catches you, right before you hit the floor.

"Hey," she says, pulling you onto her bed and stroking the hair out of your eyes. Her voice is thick with worry. "Are you ok? What's going on? What happened?"

"I had sex with Brad," you gasp out.

You want to say I had sex with Camila and then I had sex with Brad - but you can't. Your throat won't let you.

Normani stares at you, something in her expression that you've never really seen before. "Did he hurt you?"

You can't talk. You can't say anything.

You ripped your throat trying to moan yourself straight last night.

Normani strokes her hand over your cheek. "Lo," she says, "Talk to me, babe."

"I need to-" you breathe out, trying to get up again. "-get ready. I've got to - Giselle."

Normani's expression is pained with concern. "Lauren," she says. "Did Brad hurt you?"

You shake your head. "No - no, he didn't."

There's some relief on her face, but not much. She keeps stroking her fingers over your cheek, keeps running her hands through your hair, trying to calm you down. You want to fall into her and close your eyes. You want to tear every flashing memory away from your consciousness - the lines of her shoulder blades; the pull of his hands; the smoke in your lungs; her mouth between your legs - but you can't.

You've got a show to dance.

"Mani," you say. "Giselle - the matinée. They won't wait."