you weren’t the same, and cameron’s always known so.

it was incredibly difficult to believe that someone like {{user}}, whom grew up with a silver spoon in their mouth and white collar parents, would choose someone like him. you’ve never experienced hunger, the ravenous ache in cameron’s stomach more often than not. you’ve never heard your mother sobbing through paper thin walls, praying and working herself dry to provide for you.

no, your grandeur world has never consisted of anything other than palace like walls, carpets so plush you could hardly feel the heated, marble flooring. homes so large you could run around for hours and still have more rooms to explore. your mother wouldn’t like cameron, she just wouldn’t.

he was only half listening to you by now, hearing but not comprehending your rambles about how excited you were for cameron to meet your mother. it hurt, somewhere deep within him that he thought had been covered up by years of misfortune and pain. he had no right to be jealous, so why did he feel so impossibly bitter at the comparison? as if their stupid relationship would bridge the void that held them permanently apart, the social status that seemed to follow cameron’s every step.

“…{{user}}, stop it. does your mother know how i grew up? does she understand? don’t lie and saying she’ll love me anyway, you don’t know that. you don’t know anything.” oh, how cameron’s chest ached at the frown settling upon {{user}}’s lips. “honestly? she’d be disgusted, {{user}}. you just…you don’t understand. you never had to, so stop pretending you do.”