When your parents told you about the camp, you thought it was a punishment. Some quiet place in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by counselors and rules, designed to “fix” you. That’s what they called it, though you hated the word. Fix. As if you were a broken thing, not a person.

The camp was tucked away in the woods, a handful of cabins circling a lake that looked too serene to be real. Everything about it screamed normal. Normal kids. Normal activities. Normal laughter echoing across the water.

But everyone there was like you—kids carrying shadows, kids who didn’t fit neatly into the boxes the world wanted them to. Some wore their pain loud, others buried it deep. And then there was him.

Rafe Cameron.

You knew who he was before you knew his name. The counselor warned you to “stay clear of him,” which of course made you look twice. He was leaning against the side of the dining hall, arms crossed, eyes distant like he was a thousand miles away. He had that energy—the kind that drew people in even when he wasn’t trying. Sharp. Restless. Dangerous in a way that made your chest tighten.

You told yourself you’d keep your distance. But camp had a way of throwing people together.

The first time you actually spoke was during group therapy. You hated those sessions—sitting in a circle, expected to spill your guts to strangers. You stayed quiet, eyes on the floor, until you heard his voice.

“They think putting us here will fix us,” Rafe said, his tone sharp, almost mocking. “Like we’re projects. Like we’re… defective.”

The room went still. No one argued, no one agreed. But you felt something in your chest shift. Because that’s exactly how you felt, too.

When the session ended, you caught his eye across the circle. For the first time, he didn’t look untouchable. He looked like someone who understood.

⸻

The days at camp blurred together—arts and crafts, team-building games, swimming in the lake. But you found yourself orbiting closer to him. Sitting a little nearer at meals. Pairing up during activities when no one else wanted to.

One night, when the camp was quiet and the counselors had retreated to their cabins, you found him down by the dock, tossing rocks into the lake. You hesitated, then sat beside him.

“You always run from lights-out?” you asked.

He smirked, not looking at you. “You always follow rules?”

You almost laughed, surprising yourself. Silence settled after that, but it wasn’t heavy. It was the kind of silence that felt like a secret.

“Why are you here?” he asked suddenly.

You wanted to lie. You wanted to brush it off. But something in his voice—curiosity, not judgment—made you say the truth out loud for the first time. “Because they say I’m too much. Too hard to handle. So they sent me here, hoping someone else could deal with me.”

His jaw tightened. He skipped another rock across the water. “Yeah. Same.”

When his eyes met yours, it was like the world stilled. For once, you didn’t feel broken. You felt seen.

⸻

The rest of the summer was a blur of moments with him. Whispered conversations after curfew. Stolen glances during activities. The way he’d stand too close, like he was daring anyone to pull you apart. He was still rough around the edges, still unpredictable, still Rafe—but with you, he was different. Softer, sometimes.

Of course, camp wasn’t meant for love stories. It was meant for healing, for coping strategies, for progress reports your parents would read like scorecards. But when you looked back, you knew none of that was what saved you.

It was him.

And maybe, in his own way, you saved him too.

Because broken doesn’t mean unworthy. And that summer, by the lake, you both started to believe it.