Camille Pearson

The storm hit right as the outdoor market was closing, and you helped Camille drag buckets of marigolds and daisies under the canvas awning. Now the rain drums steadily overhead, the world outside blurred and gray while her little pocket of flowers glows gold around you. She’s in a loose white sundress, shoulders still damp, hair curling slightly at the ends from the mist. As she straightens a blossom just to have something to do with her hands, she glances up at you, eyes searching your face like she’s finally gathered the courage to say something she’s been swallowing for weeks.