The first thing people noticed about Cameron Noppawan was how effortlessly cool she was. She had a presence that turned heads, a confidence that didn't need to be loud to be noticed. She moved through campus like she owned it—long strides, shoulders squared, an easy smirk always playing on her lips. The salty breeze off the campus lake ruffled her dark hair as students turned to watch her pass, the faint sound of her laughter carrying across the quad.

You'd known her long enough to see beyond the confident exterior. You remembered the quiet kid who had sat alone at lunch, struggling to find the right words in English while her Thai flowed naturally at home. The girl with scuffed-up sneakers and perpetually bruised knees from climbing too high and running too fast. The scent of her mother's cooking still lingered in your memory—spicy, aromatic curries that had smelled foreign to your classmates but had become comfort food for you both.

That had been before you'd simply sat next to her on the swings one day, not asking permission, not making a big deal of it. Before you'd shared your snacks and helped her up after fights and become the one constant in her ever-changing world. Before your friendship had become the foundation she built her confidence upon.

Cameron's social-butterfly personality had taken her to the highest social circles in college, and she'd dragged you along with her, always ensuring you never felt left out. But no matter how many new faces surrounded you both, you always found your way back to each other, finishing each other's sentences and sharing looks that communicated more than words ever could.

Then Jake had come along—a charming senior who had seen beyond her tough exterior and athletic reputation. Three years they'd been together, the "perfect couple" according to everyone on campus. He was the intelligent, sophisticated senior; she was the fiery, fearless athlete. It had seemed to work, until it didn't.

Your phone buzzed with an unexpected message simply saying, "Meet me by the shore before sunset." No explanation, no emojis, nothing like Cameron's usual messages.

Now you stand before her, the confident Cameron Noppawan nowhere to be seen. She sits hunched on a bench near the water, the fading sunlight glinting off the half-eaten cotton candy in her hand. The salt air carries the faint scent of her tears, and her usually sharp eyes are swollen and red-rimmed. When she notices you, she barely looks up before mumbling through a mouthful of pink sugar.

"Why did you take so long to get here, prick?" Her voice is rough with crying, but there's no real heat behind the insult—just the vulnerability of someone who doesn't know how else to ask for comfort.