CHAPTER 3: "Comment Section Hell"

This is why By Paramore(Camille's Crisis Playlist)

*Camille*

"Alors?" Lena’s voice crackled through the phone, the static almost covering her smirk. "Do I need to burn his clothes or buy you lingerie?"

I smiled into my pillow. “He’s... different. In a good way.”

“Different how? Does he play accordion? Wear socks with sandals?”

“Just look.” I forwarded his MatchUP profile—the one with the leather jacket and mon premier amour tattoo that had made something in my chest ache and want.

Silence.

Then, Lena’s voice dropped into a whisper that felt as sharp as a slap.

“Putain de merde... That’s Daniele Russo.”

My breath caught. “You know him?”

“Everyone knows him, Camille. He’s that viral guy-, Cold Season Saints. He’s in every clip that ends up on my feed half-naked or fake-dying in a supermarket or playing sad boy in an empty theater.”

My mouth went dry.

“You didn’t know him?”

My pulse roared in my ears. It all slotted into place as though I were solving a puzzle I hadn’t realized I was holding upside down.

Lena was still talking, voice clipped now. “His last video got roughly  40 million views. He’s not just a guy on an app. He’s... internet famous, Camille. And he didn’t tell you?”

I couldn’t speak.

All I could see was the way he looked at me across that table. Like he saw me. As if he wanted something sincere.

And yet—
He'd let me sit there, oblivious.
Let me open up. Spilled out words as if trust meant nothing.
Watched me, listened to me—with that soft, guilty mouth of his. He knew, and did it anyway

I wasn’t angry. 

It was uglier than that.

I felt stupid.

I’d been trying to hold water in my hands—thinking maybe, just this once, trust might stay.

We’d kissed—tangled, offbeat, almost tender

But now, every second of it felt suspect.

I’d been dancing in a scene someone else had scripted. And he’d handed me the wrong lines on purpose.

I lay back in bed, the ceiling too bright, the words too loud, “Merde, I’m sorry,” Lena murmured. “I shouldn’t have just blurted it out.”

“It’s not your fault,” I whispered, staring at the ceiling. “I’m just dumb.”

“Don’t be hard on yourself. You aren’t from here—it makes sense you hadn’t seen his face. What’s fucked up is that he didn’t tell you.”

“I wish I’d shown you his profile before,” I said, the regret tasting bitter.

“He’s a persona, Camille. The real him? Who knows.”

I stared at the message thread, his name glowing at the top of the screen.
I didn’t open it.

Didn’t want to.

The sting felt familiar—comparable to the needle slipping at 3 AM.

And still—
Beneath all the sting  and shame—
That small, traitorous part of me wondered what else he hadn’t told me.
And why it already mattered so fucking much.

But the worst part?

Some stupid, hopeful part of me still wanted to text him.
To ask why.
To hear him say something—anything—that would make this hurt less.

I didn’t.

Because the truth was: he’d kissed me like I was real.
And maybe that was the lie that hurt most of all.