Camila's house smells like vanilla, espresso, and mild judgment.
Her mom is out, her dad's somewhere in the garage rebuilding something no one asked for, and she opens the door in socks and a glittery sleep shirt that says Flop Era Queen.
"You look like a traumatized Victorian child," she says the second she sees me.
"I feel like one," I mutter, stepping inside.
The scent of chocolate and warmth hits me immediately. Her house always feels like the inside of a Pinterest board—messy in the cool, artsy way. Vinyl records scattered across the coffee table, mugs with sarcastic quotes drying on the dish rack, fairy lights everywhere even though it's noon.
She hands me a brownie before I even sit.
It's warm. It has that crispy edge and a gooey center that's probably illegal in five countries.
"I love you, and your brownies, ya know right?" I say with my mouth full.
"I know." She plops down next to me, cross-legged. "Okay. Debrief. Give me the full rundown. Every emotionally repressed pause. Every eye twitch. Start from the top."
So I do.
I tell her about the table tension, the Lucas vs. Alex Cold War, the parentals entering stage left and lighting the match, and how I basically fled like a background character in a CW show.
Camila listens with her full therapist face on—brows raised, mouth twisted, fingers steepled like a villain-in-training.
"You know," she says when I finish, "Lucas is probably projecting."
"On who?"
"Everyone. Himself. His bestie. You. All of it. He probably expected to come home and be King Golden Boy™ again, but instead he walked into the gay tension palace and panicked."
I snort. "Gay Tension Palace is my debut album title."
"Good. It slaps."
I pick at the edge of the brownie, trying to sound casual. "Do you think Alex was flirting with me?"
Camila stares at me like I just asked if fire is hot.
"Babe."
"What?"
She leans in. "Nico. Your man—sorry, Lucas's man—literally makes eyes at you like he's in a cologne commercial. The way he stands? The way he talks to you like he's always about to say something scandalous but never does?"
I go silent.
"I rest my case," she adds, taking another brownie.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. "This is too much. My life was chill. I was invisible. I liked being invisible."
"You still kinda are," she says softly. "But not in the way you think."
I look up.
"You think you're background noise, but everyone's tuned in. They just don't always know how to say it."
I blink. "That was... weirdly poetic."
"Yeah well, I'm feeling generous. Maybe it's the sugar rush."
We sit there in silence for a bit, eating like our lives depend on it. Which, let's be real—they kinda do.
Camila finally breaks it. "So. What are you gonna do?"
"About what?"
"About Alex. About Lucas. About... all of it."
I sigh. "I don't know. I don't even know what I want. I just keep reacting to everything."
She nods like she gets it. "Maybe you don't have to do anything. Not yet."
I frown. "But isn't that just... avoiding it?"
"No," she says, licking brownie from her thumb. "It's choosing peace. Which, last I checked, you deserve."
I blink away something weird behind my eyes.
"You're like... absurdly good at this," I mutter.
She shrugs. "Years of carrying your emotionally constipated ass."
I throw a pillow at her.
She throws one back.
And for a second, things are stupid and light and fine.
Later that night, back home, the tension is still there—lingering like smoke after a fire. But I walk past Alex's door without flinching.
And maybe that's enough for now...yeah for now.