The street was almost too quiet.
Harper walked slowly, as if each step toward Camille's house was a question she hadn't found the answer to. The sun was starting to dip below the roofs, casting the familiar neighborhood in a soft orange light. Her old backpack hung loosely over one shoulder, bouncing with every uneven step. The houses were just as she remembered—postboxes slightly crooked, hedges trimmed with care, and bikes tossed on lawns like childhood never ended here.
Camille's house stood at the end of the cul-de-sac, just past the jacaranda tree that always bloomed early. Harper paused at the gate. The paint was peeling now. She remembered how they used to sit on it as kids, feet dangling, pretending it was the bow of a pirate ship. Her fingers curled around the warm wood, her breath shaky.
This had once been the safest place in her world.
She knocked, heart hammering. Once, twice. The sound echoed louder than she expected.
A pause. Then the door creaked open.
Camille appeared, framed in the hallway light. She looked almost the same as always—barefoot, wearing pajama shorts and an oversized hoodie, a highlighter still clutched in one hand and music faintly playing from her phone on the entry table.
Her expression faltered into something unreadable. "Harper?"
Harper gave a small nod, her voice catching. "Hey."
Camille blinked. "You—uh, do you want to come in? My parents are working late so.."
Harper stepped inside. The air smelled like lemon polish and laundry detergent. Familiar. Steadying.
Camille led her upstairs, the same way they'd done a thousand times growing up—two at a time when they were kids, racing to her bedroom, whispering about secrets and crushes and what it would be like to grow up.
In the bedroom, it was like time had folded in on itself. The string lights above the window still flickered softly. The dresser was cluttered with hair ties, post-it notes, and a cracked snow globe they once won at the preschool fair. And there on the mirror—pictures. Grainy photo-booth strips, a seventh birthday Polaroid with chocolate cake on their noses, a camping photo where Camille had drawn devil horns on Harper for fun.
All before Harper went away to Warren.
Harper smiled faintly. "You kept all this?"
Camille shut the door behind her. "Of course I did."
They stood there in silence, like neither of them knew how to bridge the unknown years between then and now. Finally, Harper moved toward the bed and sat down, slowly.
"Josie came to see me." she said.
Camille frowned. "She did?"
"Back when I was still in Warren.." Harper continued, her eyes on the carpet. "She just... said she had to talk to me."
Camille leaned against the desk. "What did she want?"
Harper swallowed. "She told me something. About you."
The room grew still.
Harper looked up. "She said if anyone finds out you gave me an alibi, you could get charged. For obstruction. For lying to the police. Maybe even perjury if it ever gets to court."
Camille didn't flinch. Her voice was quiet but certain. "I know."
"You know?" Harper asked, stunned.
"I'm not an idiot, Harper." she said, her tone soft but unshaken. "I knew what I was doing."
Harper stared at her. "But why?"
Camille sat beside her on the bed. "Because it was you."
Those four words cracked something in Harper's chest. She blinked back the sting in her eyes.
"I would do anything to keep you safe." Camille said, her voice barely above a whisper now. "You're one of my best friends. You've been my best friend since we were five. You held my hand when I cried about dog running away. You taught me how to ride my bike. You slept in my room for a week after my grandpa died. I couldn't just... let them take you."
Harper felt the tears start to well, but she fought them down.
"I didn't ask you to do that, Camille." she whispered.
"But you would have done the same for me." Camille said simply. "You would've. A hundred times more."
"And that's the problem.." she said. "I let you protect me. I let everyone protect me. Josie was right—I let people clean up after me."
Camille sat silently, watching her.
"I never stopped to think about what it might cost you. What if they come for you, Camille? What if they charge you? What if I ruin your life just because you loved me enough to lie?"
Camille stood now too. "Then I'd do it again."
Harper shook her head, her voice cracking. "You shouldn't have to. I've already ruined enough."
A silence stretched between them, thick with years of trust and guilt and love.
"I'm going to the police." Harper said.
Camille's face went pale. "Harper, no—"
"I have to, Camille." she cut in. "I have to fix this. You did it for me. Now I have to do it for you."
Camille's voice dropped to a whisper. "What if they arrest you?"
Harper looked down, voice small. "I don't know."
The answer settled in the air like fog. Neither of them moved.
Then slowly, Camille reached forward and wrapped her arms around her. Harper let herself fold into the hug, her cheek pressed against Camille's shoulder, her body trembling.
They stood like that for a long time—two girls who had once built forts out of blankets and believed the world was safe as long as they had each other. Now, they stood on the edge of something real, something irreversible.
Harper pulled back, wiping her cheeks.
"I need to tell the truth." she said. "For you. For me. For my family. For all of it."
Camille nodded, eyes shining. "I'll be here waiting for you to come back. No matter what."
Harper smiled faintly.
They didn't say goodbye when Harper left. They didn't need to.
Because some friendships—no matter what storms come—always find their way back home.