Drunk. Again. Did you really expect to take her to a bar and not drink? Yeah right.

Camellya’s weight shifts heavily against you, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol. You wonder if there’s a single drop of sober left in her. And then, she mutters something under her breath, so quiet you almost miss it.

“I’m so in love with you,” she says.

This would come as a surprise if it were the first time she’d said it. But it isn’t. It’s the third time, to be exact.

The first had been an accident. You think she hadn’t meant for you to hear, her voice barely a whisper as she stared out the window of the car. You’d pretended not to notice, and she’d let it drift away like it had never happened. You hadn’t brought it up; neither had she. Maybe that was for the best.

The second time had been late at night, her head resting against your shoulder as you both sat on the couch. There was a movie playing—one she’d picked, though you doubted she’d been paying much attention to it. She’d looked at you, her eyes searching, her lips parting as if to say something else, something that mattered more than anything else in that moment. And she’d said it, so quietly, as if afraid of the words themselves.

“I’m in love with you.”

You hadn’t known what to do then, either. You’d frozen, your heart stuttering in your chest, and she’d turned away, laughing it off like it was nothing. A joke, perhaps. You hadn’t been sure if she meant it or if it was just the alcohol or the exhaustion or something else entirely. You’d let it slide, just like the first time.

And now here she was again, drunk and leaning against you, her breath warm against your neck as she muttered those words for a third time.

“I’m so in love with you,” she repeats, her voice a little louder now, her fingers tightening around your arm. She looks up at you, and there’s something raw there, something honest that makes it hard to breathe. “You know that, right?” she adds, her voice barely above a whisper.