Trying Not to Fall Apart
Pairing: Cameron Cassmore x female reader
Summary: You hear Cameron sing at the bar and somehow the two of you feel connected.
Warnings: hurt/comfort. meet cute. talk about loneliness. no use of y/n.
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The bar is loud in the way lonely places usually are. Not joyful loud. Just crowded enough that nobody has to sit alone with themselves.
You almost didn’t come tonight.
But your apartment felt too quiet again, and your thoughts had started circling the drain in that familiar, exhausting way, so eventually you grabbed your coat and walked until you found somewhere with music leaking out the front door.
Now you sit hunched over a drink you barely touch while someone near the tiny stage tunes a guitar.
You aren’t really paying attention until he starts singing. And then suddenly you are.
He’s not polished. Not in the way people in movies usually are.
His voice catches slightly on the higher notes. His shoulders are tense. Like he’s trying very hard to pretend he isn’t nervous.
But there’s something raw about it. Honest.
Like he isn’t performing so much as quietly unraveling in front of strangers. And somehow that’s worse ... or better.
You can’t tell.
The whole room softens around the edges while he sings. Like everyone’s accidentally holding their breath.
When he finishes, applause scatters through the bar. He ducks his head immediately, almost embarrassed by it. And your chest aches unexpectedly. Because you know that look.
The please don’t look at me too closely look.
You don’t mean to approach him afterward. You really don’t. But somehow your feet carry you there anyway while he’s awkwardly packing up his guitar near the back hallway.
“Hey.”
He startles slightly before looking up. Up close, he looks even softer somehow. A little tired around the eyes. A little guarded.
“Uh hey.”
You gesture vaguely toward the stage. “You were really good.”
His cheeks tint pink immediately. “Oh. Thanks.” He says it like compliments confuse him.
You smile faintly. “No, seriously.”
He shrugs awkwardly, gaze dropping to the guitar case in his hands. “I kinda messed up the second verse.”
“You’re the only person who noticed.”
That earns the smallest laugh out of him. Tiny and surprised. Like it slipped out accidentally.
“I’m Cameron, by the way,” he says after a second.
You tell him your name. And for some reason, he repeats it softly after you say it. Like he’s making sure he gets it right.
There’s an awkward pause. Not uncomfortable. Just two people equally unsure what happens next.
Then Cameron clears his throat. “So…” he says carefully, “what’d you think the song was about?”
The question catches you off guard. You study him for a second. “You want the honest answer?”
He nods once.
You glance down at your drink. “…It sounded like someone trying very hard not to admit they’re lonely.”
Silence. When you look back up, something in Cameron’s expression has gone completely still. Like you accidentally hit something very real.
“Wow,” he says quietly.
Your stomach twists immediately. “Sorry, was that too much?”
“No.” He shakes his head quickly. “No, it’s just…” He laughs softly to himself. “That’s kinda exactly what it’s about.”
Something warm and sad blooms in your chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “I figured.”
He offers to buy you another drink. You almost say no out of habit. Then you look at him properly.
At the nervousness hiding under his smile. At the way he keeps fiddling with the edge of a napkin like he doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands.
And suddenly he doesn’t feel intimidating at all. He feels familiar.
So you say yes.
Talking to Cameron feels strangely easy after that. Not effortless exactly. You can tell he overthinks everything he says two seconds after saying it. But there’s a gentleness to him that makes silence feel safe instead of awkward.
You end up talking for almost two hours.
About music. About leaving home. About feeling stuck between places, versions of yourself, lives you thought you’d have by now.
At some point he admits, very quietly, “I always feel like everyone else got handed instructions for life that I missed somehow.”
Your chest tightens painfully. Because God. You know that feeling. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Me too.”
He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And something shifts. Not attraction first.
Recognition.
By the time the bar starts emptying, rain is tapping softly against the windows outside.
Cameron glances toward it with a sigh. “Great.”
“You walk here?”
“Yeah.”
You grimace. “That’s miserable.”
He smiles faintly. “Character building.”
“You sound thrilled.”
“I’m thriving, obviously.”
That pulls a laugh out of you. And Cameron ... Cameron looks visibly delighted by it. Like he accomplished something important.
Outside, the rain is colder than expected.
You stand awkwardly beneath the tiny awning together while he adjusts his guitar case over his shoulder.
“Well,” he says softly.
“Well,” you echo.
Neither of you moves. The city hums quietly around you.
Then, before you can overthink it ... “You know,” you say carefully, “for someone who writes songs about loneliness…” Cameron glances at you. “You made me feel a little less alone tonight.”
The words hang there between you. His expression changes instantly. Softening into something almost fragile. And for one terrible second, he looks like he might cry.
“Oh,” he whispers.
Rainwater drips steadily from the awning beside you. Cameron swallows hard, eyes dropping briefly before lifting back to yours.
“You did that for me too.”
Your heart stumbles. Neither of you says anything after that. You don’t need to.
Because somehow, standing there in the rain beside this awkward, aching boy with tired eyes and music still clinging to his voice both of you understand something important at the exact same time.
Sometimes healing doesn’t start with being saved. Sometimes it starts with finally being seen.
And for the first time in a long time, neither of you feels quite so invisible anymore.
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