Obsessed | Camila x Reader

~ Prologue ~

Camila's POV

I found her while replying to fans one day, an attempt to ease my boredom as the bus rumbled down a highway. Various grey tones passed by the window, blending into one sickly shade and creating a far from interesting sight. She, though, was fascinating. The strength that seemed to lay behind her eyes was what hit me first, then the rest of her. She was gorgeous. I knew that much.

I hadn't meant to open her account, but what followed was a natural progression. I scrolled through her photos, entirely enchanted by the girl before me. The next day, I found myself returning to her Instagram and looking over almost every photo before falling asleep with a smile on my face. I did the same for weeks, reading the captions to learn more about her, struggling not to like any posts lest I be spotted. I coined a pseudonym to watch her stories without being caught and used others to follow the rest of her social media accounts. Whenever someone would ask what I was looking at, why my eyes were constantly glued to my screen, I'd brush it off and make up some excuse.

"Emails." I'd lie, or "Just checking something."

They were not allowed to know about Y/n. They'd probably take her away from me, and she was my pretty little secret.

I knew I shouldn't have been completely consumed by her but that must be near impossible. Besides, I was just having a little fun. I also knew, though, that it'd only be a short while before that fun would turn a little less... innocent. I was most definitely attracted to the girl, and was often reminded of that fact in my dreams; or more specifically, when I woke up. It became harder to hide the evidence of my new-found infatuation. I started waking before the others and rushing to the bathroom to finish what my imagination had started, though it only left me more exhausted than before.

Every waking moment led me to her. I'd wake up wondering how her body would feel laid beside mine, eat breakfast wondering what she looks like in the mornings, go to hair and makeup and wonder if she's ever been pampered like this, perform and wonder if she'll see the videos of that night's show. I started performing solely for her. The other fans seemed to love it as my passion soared higher than it ever had been, my dancing more extravagant and my singing more carefully honed than they had ever been, my energy more relentless despite the deep circles around my eyes.

Their cheers, however, were empty to my ears. They weren't coming from her mouth, so they meant nothing to me. The smiles I donned at the ends of my shows were not because of the chants they called, for they did nothing but numb me, but because of the image my mind created of her finding this show, watching it, and smiling back at me.

I admit, I was obsessed. I'd only ever seen her through a screen but I just had to meet her. I had to see her in real life. I had to know if her eyes were really how they appeared in the photos. I had to know what she smelled like and if her skin was as soft as it looked. I had to make her mine, and I hatched the most devious plan to do so.