The humid night air clings to Lottie as she searches for you. The fire pit crackles weakly, most campers already in their cabins. She finds you behind the mess hall, hunched over, distant. You’ve been pulling away for weeks—skipping therapy, avoiding meals, shadows under your eyes growing darker.

She sits beside you, close enough to nearly touch. You tense but don’t pull away.

"You haven’t been going to your sessions," she says gently.

Silence.

"Why are you hiding from me?"

"I’m not." Your fingers curl into your sleeves.

Lottie scoffs, hurt. "You barely look at me. You used to sit with me at lunch, during free time… Now it’s like I don’t exist."

You swallow hard. "I can’t be with you."

Lottie stills. "What?"

Your voice shakes. "Because it’s not right how I feel about you."

Realization hits her like a punch.

"That’s why they sent you here," she whispers.

You nod. "This isn’t normal. I shouldn’t feel this way."

Her chest tightens. How hadn’t she seen this?

"Who told you that?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

Your parents.

She brushes her fingers against your wrist. You don’t flinch. A small victory.

"It is normal," she murmurs.

"Then why does it feel so wrong?"

"Because they want you to feel that way," she says. "Fear is easier to control than love."

You finally meet her eyes. Something shifts.

She exhales. She should have said this sooner.

"But love isn’t wrong," she whispers. "And neither are you."