the case study ~ camren

Swell

You may think that to be a Cabello means to be a cold, ruthless tyrant. You may think that it is to have blood-stained hands and a complete lack of remorse for the lives you have stolen, in every sense of the word. You may even think that it is to be so terribly egocentric that you would murder your own flesh and blood to make it to the top of the pecking order. I know this to be false.

To be a Cabello means that you cannot close your eyes without revisiting memories which could pass as scenes from a horror movie, but willing yourself to sleep nonetheless. To be a Cabello means that you will do anything to protect your family, even if that means making a near-impossible choice. To be a Cabello means that you are a survivor, admirably strong, and deserving of seeing the more beautiful sides of life, the sides you were not allowed to even envisage.

Camila Cabello is the most beautiful woman, inside and out, I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. She constantly reminds me of this fact, even in her silence; even as she shakes in the passenger seat, leg propped up, head lowered to her knee so that she cannot see where we are going. 

Sure, her interior is a little scattered, a little tarnished with spatters of inky crimson, a little confusing to navigate at times, but there is a certain fascination within her that can't help but radiate out to the rest of us; like how she will contently spend hours watching the clouds and telling stories with their shapes, and how she will be so curious about the smallest of things such as the woman with a chihuahua in her handbag who walked by on our way out of the thrift store, or how a microwave actually functions. She is childlike in this way and has brought back the child inside of me as I truly question, for the first time in years, the things that she notices and find a new appreciation for these details.

On the outside, she's simply a marvel. Every angle of her body seems tediously perfected, even when she makes a funny face to go along with one of her terrible jokes that I've heard a million times and still laugh at. It's the reason she can pull off that pink frock—which I still can't believe she bought and changed into when I asked her to 'wear something nice, but comfortable'—and the first way she drew me in.

"Stop staring," she mumbles, and I blush, looking back to the road. I haven't stopped glancing over at her for the whole journey. "Can I look yet?"

"Not yet, baby." I reach over to interlock my fingers with hers as the traffic light turns green. "We're almost there."

She shifts in her seat, visibly struggling not to peek. I smile, squeezing her hand. After a couple more turns and, thankfully, no more street lights, we pull into the parking lot. The moment the car's engine shuts off, she repeats her question. I consider the logistics of it, wondering if I could get her all the way down with my hand over her eyes, but then remember that I'll need her help to carry everything down. I grant her permission to look, and she raises her head so quickly, I'm surprised she doesn't give herself whiplash. Immediately, her jaw drops as her wide eyes take in her surroundings through the windows of the car.

"You didn't," she mumbles, making me laugh lightly. I nod, simply admiring the slight quiver of her lips, the awe growing behind her eyes, the way she squeezes my hand tightly. Then, all of a sudden, she throws my hand to the side and buries her face with her own, letting out a whimper as she begins to quietly cry. A deep trench forms between my brows as I unbuckle my seatbelt to lean across the centre console to wrap my arms around her. This certainly wasn't the reaction I was expecting.

"Hey," I whisper, stroking up and down her arm as she leans into me, "Hey, it's okay. Why are you crying?"

She quickly shakes her head and I feel her body swell as she takes deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. I hush her softly, still frowning as my eyes trace the distant horizon, where the ocean meets the sky. Eventually, she pushes me away ever so slightly with a hand on my chest, only to crash her lips onto mine before I can see her face. Her salty tears mingle with the subtle taste of banana still lingering on her lips, and I find myself leaning into the kiss. It lasts a minute or so before her hand pushes once more. When she looks up at me, her eyes are still full of tears even as they smile.