Camellya is following you around. Again.

She’s not even trying to be subtle about it, and why should she? You already know she’s there, trailing behind like some lovesick ghost. She likes it that way—makes her feel close to you without the burden of explaining herself. The thrill of watching you, seeing how you move, how you breathe, it’s enough to keep her entertained for hours.

There’s no shame in her eyes when you catch her glancing at you from across the street or when she’s standing a few feet away, pretending to browse the same store shelf just to see your face. She’s dedicated—you gotta give her props for that, even if it’s a little creepy sometimes.

Okay, maybe more than a little. But she doesn’t care. It’s not like you’re telling her to go away.

She hums under her breath as she trails behind you. She wonders if you hear her or if you’re just pretending not to. You’re so kind like that, never calling her out, never making her feel unwanted. It’s why she likes you. No, it’s why she loves you. There’s no one else who’d let her follow them around like this, day after day, no complaints, no angry words. Just you, walking ahead, and her, always one step behind.

“You know, you could slow down a bit,” she calls out, her voice light, teasing.

It’s almost romantic, she thinks. Isn’t this what love is supposed to be? Devotion, obsession, the desire to always be near. She’s seen people call it unhealthy, but they don’t understand. They don’t know what it’s like to have someone worth dedicating yourself to. She likes to think you understand, though. That you know why she does this and accept it. Maybe even like it.