Riptide (a camren fic)

Chapter 6: Freeze Pops or Otter Pops?

A/N: I KNOW I TOOK LIKE 84 YEARS TO UPDATE SORRY KIDS. AND APOLOGIES FOR POTENTIAL TYPOS

She's truly struck out in the stupidity level, she thinks, poking at her French toast absently. She watches distractedly as her mother hands Sofi the syrup, and loses focus when the seven year old completely drenches the slices of bread.

What did Camila expect? For her neighbor to just barge through her window at 4am again?

(Camila won't admit that she was secretly hoping for this to happen).

Her thumb unlocks her phone, and she scrolls through her contacts, pausing in the L section.. She still has Lauren's number saved, despite never using it during the end of Camila's junior year. And the only reason she still has it is because she has this habit of hoarding people's numbers. If she looked hard enough, she's sure she'd probably find Austin's in there somewhere too.

Camila hovers over Lauren's name, before opening up a new message. She begins to type out an apology, before quickly erasing it.

Worst case scenario: Lauren has changed her number. Even worse of scenario: Lauren's deleted Camila's number and she's forced to deal with the awkward "who's this?" response.

Camila sighs, deleting the unsent message, and stuffing her phone back into her pocket. This is stupid. It wasn't even like they ended their quality time on a bad note. There wasn't any fighting or the usual unspoken negative tension.

Deep down, however, Camila knows better. And she doesn't think she can get that look Lauren gave her out of her head. As if Camila had just humiliated her in front of a crowd of people rather than just in the presence of two.

After she eats a little, Camila heads back to her room, though she knows her mother and Sofi's eyes on her retreating figure. She can distinctly feel the semblance of disappointment in her mother behavior. But she ignores it.

.

.

It's one of those days, Camila realizes, hours later, with her head buried beneath a pillow.

One of those days where time seems to move in a nauseating fast motion, yet feels as if it shifts at a snail's pace, matching the lethargic spell that falls over her.

The afternoon slow sinking sunlight settles through the half closed blinds, leaving the room in an orange glow. She reaches up and pulls the pillow off, eyes blinking blearily in the fading sunlight.

This used to be her favorite time of the day.

Mostly because the sun, the source of her of distaste for the Miami weather and her inability to wear practically eighty five percent of her autumn infested clothing, was leaving for a few hours. It was because it was the end of the day. The hustle and bustle of the mornings and the heated traffic of the afternoon disappear. People are coming home from work, school, wherever, exhausted yet resolute in returning home. It was the desired sigh of relief after a long day, painted into different shades of red and yellow and orange.

Camila turns away from the window. All it reminds her of now is how easy it is for her to pathetically waste away a day of her life.

She reaches for the pillow again, but stops when she sees Dinah, perched cross legged, at the foot of her bed.

"This is too depressing, even for you," Dinah says.

"Shut up," Camila groans.

"It's like you've taken five steps back," Dinah continues, tilting her head to the side. "I thought we were going out today."