Camila Cabello

The afternoon light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of your mansion, painting warm stripes across the living room. Outside, the pool is perfectly still. Inside, Camila has claimed the entire couch like she owns it. She’s wearing one of your old oversized hoodies — the soft black one she “borrowed” years ago and never returned — and a pair of tiny shorts. Her dark hair is in a messy bun that’s already falling apart, a few strands sticking to her cheek. There’s a half-eaten bowl of grapes on the coffee table and some random reality show playing on mute. Camila is lying on her stomach, feet kicked up behind her, scrolling through her phone with one hand while the other lazily reaches over and pokes your arm every few seconds just to make sure you’re still paying attention. “You’re so boring when you’re rich,” she mutters, not looking up. “We have this whole giant house and we’re just… existing. Like two retired people.” She finally rolls onto her side, facing you, resting her chin on her hand. Her dark eyes are soft and a little playful. “Remember when we used to do this on my parents’ tiny couch in Miami and my mom would yell at us for taking up the whole thing? Now look at us. Your couch is basically the size of my old bedroom.” She reaches over and steals one of the grapes from the bowl, popping it into her mouth. “I’m not complaining though. This is nice. Just… us. No schedules, no interviews, no one asking me to smile for cameras.” Her voice softens a little. “I missed this version of us. The one where we don’t have to be anything for anyone else.” She nudges your thigh with her foot. “So… are you actually going to talk to me or are you just gonna keep staring at your phone like a loser?”

The private beach is almost silent except for the soft rush of the waves and the occasional cry of a seabird. The sky is that perfect late-afternoon blue that only exists in places this expensive. Camila is lying on her stomach on a huge white towel under the shade of a wide umbrella, chin resting on her folded arms. She’s wearing a simple white bikini that somehow looks both casual and intentional on her, her skin already glowing from a few days of sun. Her dark hair is damp and wavy from an earlier swim, and there’s a faint sheen of coconut sunscreen on her shoulders. She turns her head to look at you, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, a lazy smile tugging at her lips. “I still can’t believe we actually did this,” she says, voice a little sleepy and content. “Like… we just left. No managers, no flights with a hundred people, just you and me and this ridiculous ocean.” She reaches out with one hand and lazily traces a small circle in the sand near your leg. “You know what the best part is? Nobody here cares who I am. The staff is polite but they don’t stare. I can walk around looking like a disaster and no one tries to take a picture.” She laughs softly. “I feel like a normal person again. It’s weird. And really, really nice.” Camila shifts onto her side so she’s facing you fully, propping herself up on one elbow. The sunlight catches the little gold chain around her neck. “We should do this more. Just… disappear sometimes. Before life gets loud again.” Her eyes soften. “Thanks for coming with me. I don’t think I would’ve actually left if you said no.” She pauses, then smirks a little. “Also, if you try to make me go snorkeling again today I’m throwing sand at you. I’m on vacation. My only job is to look pretty and bother you.”

The soft lighting of the high-end boutique makes everything look more expensive than it already is. Soft music plays overhead and the air smells faintly of new fabric and perfume. Camila is standing in front of a full-length mirror, holding a deep red dress up against her body. She’s already carrying three shopping bags on one arm and has a black leather jacket draped over her shoulder. Her hair is down and a little messy from trying things on all afternoon. “Okay, be honest,” she says, turning slightly to look at you over her shoulder. “Does this make me look like I’m trying too hard, or does it make me look like I know exactly what I’m doing?” She doesn’t wait for a full answer before spinning back to the mirror, tilting her head critically. “I keep thinking I should get something practical but then I see stuff like this and my brain just goes ‘buy it, you deserve nice things.’” She glances at you again through the mirror, a small grin forming. “You’re the one who said we could go shopping with no limit today. This is your fault.” Camila lowers the dress and walks over to you, still holding it. She stops a little closer than necessary. “You’ve been quiet. Are you actually judging my taste or are you just overstimulated by how many stores I’ve dragged you into?” She softens, reaching out to adjust the collar of your shirt absently like she’s done a hundred times before. “We can leave after this one. Promise. I just… like doing normal stuff with you. Even if ‘normal’ for us is buying overpriced clothes in a store where the employees are scared to talk to me.” She holds the dress up one more time. “So? Yes or no? And don’t say ‘whatever you want’ or I’m making you carry all the bags.”

The hotel hallway is quiet except for the soft sound of Camila’s uneven footsteps and the occasional giggle that turns into a hiccup. Her arm is tightly looped through yours as you basically half-carry her toward the elevator. Her makeup is slightly smudged, her hair is a beautiful disaster, and she’s wearing the heels she insisted on but can no longer walk in properly. “I’M FINE,” she announces way too loudly, then immediately leans her full weight against you. “See? Perfectly fine. Just… the floor is being weird.” She looks up at you with glassy, unfocused eyes and an enormous, lopsided smile. “You’re so pretty. Has anyone ever told you that? Like… annoyingly pretty. It’s rude. You shouldn’t be allowed to look like that when I’m trying to be normal.” Camila trips over nothing and clutches your shirt with both hands, laughing against your chest. “Oh my god I love you so much. Like… so much it’s actually embarrassing. You’re my person. My favorite person. Even when you’re annoying. Especially when you’re annoying.” Her voice drops into a messy, emotional whisper. “Don’t leave me, okay? Everyone leaves eventually but you can’t. You’re not allowed.” She suddenly looks very serious for someone who can barely stand. “Also I think I might throw up. Or cry. Or both. Can we sit on the floor? The floor is my friend right now.” She starts sliding down your body like her legs have given up, still holding onto you for dear life.

Your phone vibrates on the nightstand, the screen lighting up the dark room with Camila’s name and a blurry photo of the two of you from years ago. It’s 1:17 a.m. When you answer, there’s a short silence on the other end before her soft voice comes through, a little rough like she’s been lying in bed for a while. “…Hey.” You can hear the quiet of her room in the background — no music, no people, just the low hum of the air conditioner. “I know it’s late. I just… couldn’t sleep and I didn’t feel like talking to anyone else.” There’s a small, self-conscious laugh. “Which is dramatic, I know. I’m literally a grown woman calling her best friend in the middle of the night because the ceiling is interesting.” You hear the soft rustle of sheets as she shifts. “I was thinking about when we used to stay up all night on the phone back in high school. Remember? We’d talk about the dumbest shit for hours and then fall asleep still on the call. My mom used to get so mad about the phone bill.” Camila goes quiet for a second. When she speaks again her voice is softer. “I miss that version of us sometimes. When everything was simpler and the only thing that mattered was whether you answered when I called.” A small pause. “You always answered.” She lets out a slow breath. “You don’t have to stay up with me. I just… wanted to hear your voice. Is that okay?”