too much

love is a condition of the head

// love is a condition of the head //

// there is no prescription to forget //

// so you're all over my brain //

// you're the blue fix that makes me run //

// i'll do anything to get me some //

// stop me before it's too late //

downtown - allie x

::

The air is chilly outside, a few people spilled on at the backyard with a bonfire, all huddled up close to stave off the breeze. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore soothes her, dispelling the effect of the lingering smoke and stifling air inside the house.

Camila hugs her bomber jacket tighter, pulling her hair out of its tie. She sits at the steps, the liquid in her cup sloshing and spilling over her hand a little.

Someone from the circle by the bonfire hollers at her, Troye, but she laughs and waves him away as he raises a smoking gesture in the air.

She's really not up for anything.

She hasn't been up for anything recently, actually.

Maybe it's the lack of pizza recently? Camila takes note to have on delivered by the time she musters the will to go back inside the house and tell her best friend that she's running off.

The back door opens, making Camila flinch with the sudden onslaught of music, before the door slams shut again and it's back to it's semi-peaceful, quiet lull from before.

Troye hollers again, wolf-whistling and swaying his hips in a way that makes a bunch of guys in the circle stare at him for a second too long. The woman that walked out of the house laughs loudly at Troye, swaying her hips in a way that makes Camila stare at her before she looks away.

The woman's giggling, plopping down beside Camila on the other end of the stairs.

"Hi," the woman breathes out, green eyes focused on Camila's, the tip of her tongue in between her lips that's stretched in a grin. ", not enjoying the party?"

Camila smiles, holding up her cup. "Can't really say that when I've been hogging the best from the top shelves. And before you ask, just make sure you won't get caught when you take some." She decides to wink at the woman beside her, straightening her back out a bit when a light blush covers the woman's neck.

They stare for a while, hearing the bonfire group singing along to the guy with a guitar with a heavy Irish accent, and the whooping sounds from the nearest window where the beer pong table is at.

"Lauren," the woman says, extending her hand to Camila in a way that's all shy, alert, and innocently seductive.

"Camila."

Her hands are bigger, Camila notes, but her own wins by length, most probably from countless sleepless nights on burning the midnight fuel with writing songs.

Lauren startles, her phone vibrating inside her pocket. Camila tries not to look disappointed—the writer in her sees it playing at the forefront of her mind: they meet, things go well, a phone breaks a moment, a lover demanding where the other is—yeah, her imagination works like that.

"Trouble in paradise?" Camila asks, eyes following as Lauren tucks her phone back into her pocket. Green eyes wrinkle slightly, looking amused and fond.