A Tethered Heart

Silence hung between them like a heavy curtain—thick, unmoving, stretched taut between two aching hearts.

Cameron's confession still clung to the air like smoke, refusing to fade. And Jasmine could feel her eyes, wide and waiting, searching her face for something—anything. A sign. A breath. A shift in posture. Hope.

But Jasmine stayed still.

Not out of shock. Not out of heartbreak.

Out of calculation.

Because she had heard every word. Every raw, trembling syllable. And they had settled into her skin like wet ink, sinking deep. But what weighed her down now wasn't guilt.

It was something else.

Something colder.

Because Jasmine didn't love Cameron the way Cameron loved her—not in the aching, all-consuming way that had just been laid bare—but she did love being adored. She loved being seen the way Cameron saw her—like something divine. Like art. Untouchable, but deeply felt.

And now that gaze had come with a cost.

Love me back. Or let me go.

The ultimatum hadn't been spoken aloud, but it hung there, silent and suffocating.

Jasmine wasn't ready for either.

She liked her place in Cameron's world. Liked being the center of it. She wasn't ready to give that up. But she wasn't ready to give herself over either. Not to Cameron. Not to anyone.

So she spun her thoughts like silk, threading the perfect response between truth and fiction. Not enough to sever the connection—but just enough to keep it frayed. Manageable.

She inhaled shakily, letting her shoulders fall with the weight of practiced remorse. Cameron's eyes were still locked onto her, burning holes into her composure.

Jasmine dropped her gaze.

"This is all my fault," she whispered, her voice soft and trembling in just the right places. She let her lower lip quiver slightly, just enough. "I didn't mean to lead you on. I never wanted to hurt you, Cameron."

And she saw it—the flinch. The slight jolt in Cameron's posture. The way her hands twitched toward her sleeves, bracing for impact. She was already breaking.

Jasmine swallowed down the guilt before it could rise.

"I just... I didn't realize how deep this ran for you," she continued, the words curling in her mouth like well-worn lines. "I didn't know you felt it that way."

But she had known.

Of course she had.

She'd seen it in every lingering glance, every nervous laugh, every late-night message that didn't need to be sent but always was. She had felt the electricity, the longing.

And she had let it happen.

Because it felt good.

Because Cameron made her feel wanted in a way no one else ever had.

"I love you too," she said, barely above a whisper. "But… not in the way you want me to."

The silence that followed was sharp and immediate—like glass cracking underfoot. And Jasmine could feel it: the fracture. The first break.

She let it hang.

Let it ache.

And then, softly, she twisted the knife.

"I'm still in love with my boyfriend," she said, quieter now. "And I don't think… I don't think I could ever be in love with a girl."

It wasn't the truth. Not entirely. She had thought about it, late at night. Imagined it. Felt that tug of curiosity, that pull toward something deeper, warmer. But she couldn't admit that now.

It was safer this way.

Easier.

It made it not Cameron's fault.

Made it no one's fault.

Jasmine reached out slowly, brushing her fingers against Cameron's hand. She didn't hold it—didn't grip or squeeze. Just a soft, confusing touch. A ghost of intimacy.

"You're the best girl I've ever met," she murmured. "And if—if there was ever a part of me that could change… that could feel that way…" She hesitated, carefully, eyes lowered. "I know it would be for you."

That part mattered. The pause. The look-away. It made it sound tragic instead of cruel. Safe instead of final.

She let the words linger in the air like perfume—sweet, intoxicating, and designed to cling.

"I'm so sorry if I ever gave you the wrong impression."

She exhaled, slow and shaky, her expression soft and remorseful. She sat perfectly still, lashes low, heart protected beneath layers of practiced sincerity.

But beneath it all, she was watching.

Calculating.

Measuring every flicker of Cameron's face, every microexpression of pain, of confusion, of hope slipping away.

Across from her, Cameron stood like a statue, arms wrapped around herself. Her body was trembling, but not from the cold. She wasn't crying. Wasn't screaming. Just shaking—the kind of tremor that came from something internal, something deep and splintering.

She looked at Jasmine like she'd just watched her own heart get dropped to the pavement and stepped on with care.

That was the thing about a tethered heart.

It doesn't snap all at once.

It unravels.

One strand at a time.

And Jasmine?

She had just pulled the first one loose.