Strangers to Friends

You met Rafe Cameron on a warm July night, the kind where the air was thick with music, cheap beer, and the scent of ocean salt. He wasn’t supposed to matter — just another Kook at a party you barely wanted to be at. But he was magnetic in a way that snuck up on you. Everyone else orbited him, but he had a way of making you feel like the center of gravity when he looked your way.

He was surprisingly soft-spoken when it was just the two of you. You talked on the porch that night for hours — about anything and nothing — and for the first time, you saw the boy behind the bravado. Not Rafe Cameron the rich kid, not the golden son of the island, but a lonely boy who laughed with his whole chest when he forgot to guard himself.

After that night, you kept running into him — or maybe he made sure you did. Little by little, friendship formed. You joked about things no one else caught. He opened up in pieces, cautiously. And you found yourself wanting to protect the broken parts of him he tried so hard to hide.

Friends to Lovers.

It didn’t happen all at once — falling for Rafe. It was a slow unraveling.

He’d show up outside your window at midnight with a grin and a boat key, dragging you out to the water under the stars. You’d fall asleep on the beach together, wake up tangled, laughing, sunburned. He brought chaos, yes, but also this strange kind of safety — like you were his one escape from a world he never quite fit into.

He kissed you for the first time on a rooftop, the Fourth of July fireworks lighting up the sky. “I don’t do this,” he’d whispered afterward, voice low. “Feel things.” But he did. He felt everything too much, and for a while, you were the only one who could hold that weight with him.

There were good days. Weeks of them, even. He’d call you “baby” like it meant something. He’d take you out on his dad’s boat just to be alone with you. You got used to his mood swings, the quiet way he needed reassurance, the nights he clung to you like he was afraid you’d vanish. You were his anchor. Or you tried to be.

But love, especially the kind that tries to fix someone, is a fragile thing.

Lovers to Strangers Again.

It started slowly — the unraveling.

At first, it was just a few missed calls. A couple of nights he said he’d come over and didn’t. Then it was the lies. The disappearances. The bruises on his knuckles and the bloodshot eyes he tried to blink away.

The partying got heavier. So did the drugs. And no matter how many times you told him you were scared, begged him to slow down, to let you in—he didn’t. Or maybe he couldn’t. He stopped looking at you like you were the center of his world and started looking past you, like you were just one more reminder of a life he didn’t think he deserved.

The night you walked away, he came home long after midnight, high and drunk, muttering to himself. You tried to help him take off his shoes and he shoved you away without realizing it was you. And when he did look at you, he looked through you like you were a stranger in his own house.

You packed your bag in silence.

He didn’t stop you.

The air was cool by the marina, salt in the breeze, sky fading dark. You hadn’t expected to see him — but there he was. Rafe Cameron.

He looked like a worn-out version of the boy you once loved. Same sharp features. Same messy hair. But his eyes were tired. Empty.

He paused when he saw you. Then, slowly, he crossed the street.

You didn’t move.

It had been months since that night — the one where he came home too high to remember your name.

Now he stood in front of you, hands in his pockets.

“I didn’t know if I should say anything,” he said quietly. “But… I couldn’t just walk away.”

You said nothing.

He shifted his weight, shoved his hands into his pockets — the same nervous gesture he always made when he was trying to pretend he wasn’t unraveling. “You look good.”