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Come on, Camille. Stop being a bitch, just get out and go inside.
With an eye roll to my inner voice, I do just that. I turn my car off and walk to the door, finding the key in the exact same spot it was years ago. Hidden inside of a fake plastic rock. Even the lock is the same.
The door is hard to open; I have to push my weight against the door to get it to budge, likely because it's an old building, and the door hasn't been opened in what I assume is nine years.
It opens with an audible creak, and right away I'm encased with memories and the feeling of nostalgia. Grabbing my iPhone from my pocket, I turn the flashlight on.
Holy shit, I walked into a fucking time capsule full of memories. Everything is the same. Dusty, but the same.
The walls are still lined with Dean's blueprints and my rough clothing sketches. The ink has faded, and they are a bit unreadable.
My fingertips trace over the lines and swirls of designs, a smile curling at the corner of my lips. Once, this place meant everything to me. I never thought I'd be back.
Coming here was a sudden decision. I felt compelled to come to the place where Dean and I shared so many memories. Now that I'm here, I realize it wasn't the best idea. My eyes sting with unshed tears, my throat is clogged with emotion, and my heart is aching.
Years of memories play through my head, and all I want to do is go back in time and press pause. Soak up the feeling of being young and carefree for a little bit longer.
Am I pathetic for being so attached to someone I loved so many years ago? They say you never forget your first love, and I know that's true because I never have. But are you always supposed to be in love with that person? People fall in and out of love every day. How can that be? I have never loved anyone the way I loved Dean.
The way Istilllove him. The way I always will, no matter what.
I don't believe there's a single thing in the world that can ever make me stop loving him. There's nothing he can ever do or say that can change my feelings for him. No matter how many years pass or the fact we married other people, the fact will always be true that I love Dean.
I'm in love with him, all these years later.
I'm aware of how pathetic that makes me.
In college, I had flings, but I never allowed myself to let my guard down and get too close or be with them for more than a short period of time. I compared every man I met to Dean and never wanted to commit myself to anyone.
That changed when I met Declan.
He swept me off my feet from the first day, and our whirlwind entanglement began. I now question if it was him or the adrenaline that I fell in love with.
I don't realize I'm crying until I taste the saltiness on my lips. My anxiety is so high that my hands are shaking, and I realize that I haven't taken a magic pill in a few days. Not since my dinner with Karina.
I'm a horrible person. I should be preparing for my husband to come home and to see him for the first time in three months. Instead, I'm chasing ghosts from my past and torturing myself by reminding myself what it was like to be with Dean and love him.
I'm torturing myself by waving the forbidden fruit in front of my face.
I want it but can never have it.
Soulmates do exist, and mine is across the town with his wife.
I'll allow myself this one time to cry. I'll cry and get it all out and then move on. I'll mourn the loss of Dean and what could've been, and then I'll carry on with my life. I'll accept the fact that fate doesn't exist, and we don't always end up with our soulmates.
One night of crying will be the closure I need, and I can put him in my past and keep him there.
"It hasn't changed a bit." I feel his warm breath on the back of my neck, goosebumps raising on my skin. He didn't startle me; I could feel his presence long before he spoke. I wipe the tears from my face, giving him a silent nod. His long fingers wrap around my arms, and he turns me to face him. His touch sends a thousand lightning bolts through my body, and I feel it down to my toes. His hazel eyes are captivating, and instantly, I lose myself in them. Just like I have so many times before.
To make sure he's real and not a figment of my imagination, I reach out and press a hand against his chest.
Without breaking eye contact, Dean cups my face gently and wipes my tears away with his thumbs.
"I'm sorry about earlier." His voice is soft, barely above a whisper.
"Me too. I don't want to fight with you." He brushes a loose strand of my hair from my face.
"You are so beautiful." His whispered words deliver butterflies to my stomach. We're standing on an invisible but dangerous line that neither of us can cross but desperately want to.
