c h l o e

It's not just the things. It’s how your routines have merged, how your evenings blur together on her couch, how your laundry ends up in the same basket. You haven’t said anything out loud. Neither has she.

It's stirs under the surface, the question of what you two were. Not that you needed a title, but still that feeling swirls in your stomach. That voice that whispers, planting a seed of conflict inside you, "well, why can't you have a title either?"

You avoided it, ignored when Wanda asked what was wrong in that soft tone, brushing her thumb against your cheek. You avoided it, the discussion when you felt your friend over the phone began to steer the conversation towards that direction. You avoided it for as long as you could until you couldn't anymore.

It was Christmas now, and like the year-round tradition goes, there's another gathering. One that's held at Cher's across the way. You show with homemade cookies, a smile on your face when they open the door.

“So glad you came,” she says, opening the door with a quick smile as she steps aside. “You can set those over there on the kitchen counter.”

You nod, stepping inside with the familiar weight of nerves pressing at your chest. As you head toward the kitchen, your eyes catch hers—and everything else fades for a moment.

She’s seated on the couch in the living room, laughing softly with someone beside her, a glass of something spiked cradled loosely in her hand. The warm light falls across her face just right. She hasn’t seen you yet, but you can’t look away.

Your heart lurches in your chest. It’s like your whole body suddenly remembers why you’re here, and why it matters. The quiet scream inside you grows louder with each step toward her. Your pulse races, each beat echoing in your ears like footsteps.

She notices you just as you step into the edge of the living room. Her eyes light up—subtle, but enough—and she reaches a hand out toward you without a word.

You take it instinctively, the touch grounding you. She gently pulls you down beside her, and you sit, still a little breathless, offering a small smile that she mirrors without hesitation.

The person she was talking to glances between you both now, eyebrows raised, a slow grin forming.

“So… what are you two, exactly?” they ask, and just like that, the air shifts—quiet, loaded.

Wanda lets out a small laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doesn't look at you. Instead, she takes a slow sip from her glass, her gaze fixed somewhere across the room, like the question wasn’t really asked or maybe wasn’t hers to answer.

Your own eyes drop to the floor, heavy with something you can’t name—uncertainty, maybe. Or hope, trying not to embarrass itself.

You open your mouth, then close it again. The silence lingers just a second too long.

And then the conversation moves on, but you don’t.

When it became too much to bear—the tight ache in your chest winding so hard it felt like something might snap—you knew you had to go. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not in the middle of your small town packed shoulder to shoulder in this overheated room.

So you swallow it down, set your glass quietly on the counter, and walk out without a word. The swing door creaks behind you, then thuds shut.

Outside, the night air hits you like a slap—cold, quiet, honest. For a second, you just stand there, letting it all rush over you, wondering if the weight in your chest will ease or finally break.

The moment you reach your real home—not the one you’ve been calling home lately, but the one with your name on the deed—the tears finally came. And they continued throughout your night. In the shower, while you brushed your teeth, when you got in your cold bed.

She laughed. When they asked what you were, she laughed. Not in the way that invited you in, not with warmth or clarity—just a quick, deflective laugh, like the question didn’t deserve an answer.

She was uncomfortable with you. Not just the label—you. And in that moment, something inside you recoiled, folding in on itself, quiet and stinging.

You weren’t someone she wanted to hold in public.

It’s spring again.

The kind of soft, golden spring that used to mean something—late sunsets, shared walks, her laughter in the breeze.

You haven’t seen her in weeks.

Not because you couldn't. Just because you haven’t tried. Messages sit half-written. You scroll past her name like it doesn't still stir something in your chest. When you catch glimpses of her in town, you look the other way before she can notice.

You're not sure if you're giving her space or giving up. But either way, you’re not ready to find out which it is.

You’re still hurting, in ways that surprise you. It wasn’t just what she said—or didn’t say. It was how small you felt, how easy it was for her to laugh like you meant nothing. That feeling doesn’t let go, it's like cold water when you're reminiscing the warmer memories.

They say what goes up must come down—like Newton’s law of nature, simple and unavoidable.

You’ve been keeping your distance, trying to outrun the weight of everything between you and her. But in a town this small, some things just can’t be avoided.

One day, caught in a sudden downpour, you run right into her on the slick sidewalk. The rain falls so heavy it blurs the edges of the world, and there she is. You freeze, goosebumps rising despite the wet cold. Of all the people you could be stuck with out here, it’s her.

Her eyes find yours, and for a moment, you can’t read the expression that settles over her face—something unreadable. You keep your head down, walking past her. Choosing that while you notice how slows, her voice calling out your name softly, the arm that comes to grip your wrist softly. And the hurt flipped like a switch.

Without thinking, you snap—jerking your arm free and stepping back. “What do you want from me?!” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Before she can even speak, you cut her off, continuing. "No! No—we're not doing this again, Wanda."

Behind you, you hear her heels click against the wet pavement, stepping through puddles to keep up. Her voice is pleading, low and trembling as she calls out.

But you keep walking, the distance between you growing with every step, even as her words chase after you in the rain. You shake your head sharply, as if trying to shake her words free from your mind. You want to plug your ears, to block everything out.

You’re by the train tracks now, walking toward the parking lot. Your boots crush through the patch of grass, sinking into the soft mud beneath. The cold rain soaks through your jacket, but you don’t care. You just want to get away.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch her again—still following, still calling.

You stop abruptly, spin around, and yell, snapping, “Why won’t you just leave me alone? Haven’t you done enough?”

“The only joke here is you,” you snap, eyes burning. “I thought I was special to you. You took care of me, made me feel like I mattered. But then you just laughed when someone asked what we were—like it was some kind of fucking joke. You touched me like you loved me… so what the hell was—"

“I do love you...” she says softly, stepping closer, her voice barely above the rain. You freeze, heart pounding, caught between disbelief and the sharp sting of old wounds.

“What,” you whisper, voice trembling, “how can you say that now? After everything—after you—”

You start to ramble, words spilling out in a desperate rush, but before you can finish, she crosses the small space between you and presses her lips to yours, cutting you off completely. The rain is cold, you're cold. Clothes seeped with water, drenched. But her lips are warm and just a brush of them against yours and you feel like a furnace. Your arms encircle her neck, her arms gripping your waist. The two of you standing in the middle of the rain, lips locked, desperate.

One thing led to another. You don’t remember how the sidewalk turned into her car, or when your hands found her face again, or how her touch—so familiar, so painfully missed—melted all the anger into something messier, deeper.

Now you’re in the backseat, the windows fogged with breath and rain, her coat half off, your knees bracketing her hips as you straddle her lap. Her hands are firm on your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

Your lips are interlocked, hungry and aching, and the space between you—once so thick with silence—is now filled with heat, with urgency, with everything you’ve both been trying not to feel.

Each clothing article is stripped off each other, hands finding each other like it's the first time. Her hands trailing up your waist, cupping your tits as she breaks you down all the more by kissing down your neck.

You're a naked mess in front of her now, gasping into her neck as she presses her two fingers into you. A hand pressed against the car window beside you, the other tugging her hair as you find purchase somewhere. Find stability as you loose your mind with her again. She knows you. Where to angle, where to press, when to add another.

"Wans," you keen, voice full of need, depth. "Please... please..."

She shushes you, "I know... I know, I'm not stopping. I'm not letting you go."

You almost want to laugh at the fact she had a strap in the car, but all that came upon your face was a genuine smile. At the sight, Wanda smiled as well, leaning to kiss your cheek.

She got you situated, gripping your hips as she guided you down onto her length. You looked like sin. Lips swollen, eyes hazy, all the emotions you held for her written in your body language.

A shudder wracked your body when she kissed along your neck, whispering her affection. How beautiful you looked, how well you took her, how much she loved you, how much she missed you.

Even as she brings you to the edge of heaven, you realize you’re already there—just being in her arms again, feeling her breath against your skin, her body beneath yours. It’s not just the heat or the closeness. It’s her. It’s you and her, again.

“Move in with me?” she pants against your neck, almost nervous, voice muffled against your skin, her hands gripping your thighs like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You freeze for half a second, breath catching—then you lean in, forehead pressed to hers, and whisper, “Okay.” Your voice is soft, shaky. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

notes ︴i was listening to DAVID by LORDE when writing this... do with that what you will. hope you enjoyed.

It's not just the things. It’s how your routines have merged, how your evenings blur together on her couch, how your laundry ends up in the same basket. You haven’t said anything out loud. Neither has she.

It's stirs under the surface, the question of what you two were. Not that you needed a title, but still that feeling swirls in your stomach. That voice that whispers, planting a seed of conflict inside you, "well, why can't you have a title either?"

You avoided it, ignored when Wanda asked what was wrong in that soft tone, brushing her thumb against your cheek. You avoided it, the discussion when you felt your friend over the phone began to steer the conversation towards that direction. You avoided it for as long as you could until you couldn't anymore.

It was Christmas now, and like the year-round tradition goes, there's another gathering. One that's held at Cher's across the way. You show with homemade cookies, a smile on your face when they open the door.

“So glad you came,” she says, opening the door with a quick smile as she steps aside. “You can set those over there on the kitchen counter.”

You nod, stepping inside with the familiar weight of nerves pressing at your chest. As you head toward the kitchen, your eyes catch hers—and everything else fades for a moment.

She’s seated on the couch in the living room, laughing softly with someone beside her, a glass of something spiked cradled loosely in her hand. The warm light falls across her face just right. She hasn’t seen you yet, but you can’t look away.

Your heart lurches in your chest. It’s like your whole body suddenly remembers why you’re here, and why it matters. The quiet scream inside you grows louder with each step toward her. Your pulse races, each beat echoing in your ears like footsteps.

She notices you just as you step into the edge of the living room. Her eyes light up—subtle, but enough—and she reaches a hand out toward you without a word.

You take it instinctively, the touch grounding you. She gently pulls you down beside her, and you sit, still a little breathless, offering a small smile that she mirrors without hesitation.

The person she was talking to glances between you both now, eyebrows raised, a slow grin forming.

“So… what are you two, exactly?” they ask, and just like that, the air shifts—quiet, loaded.

Wanda lets out a small laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She doesn't look at you. Instead, she takes a slow sip from her glass, her gaze fixed somewhere across the room, like the question wasn’t really asked or maybe wasn’t hers to answer.

Your own eyes drop to the floor, heavy with something you can’t name—uncertainty, maybe. Or hope, trying not to embarrass itself.

You open your mouth, then close it again. The silence lingers just a second too long.

And then the conversation moves on, but you don’t.

When it became too much to bear—the tight ache in your chest winding so hard it felt like something might snap—you knew you had to go. Not here. Not in front of everyone. Not in the middle of your small town packed shoulder to shoulder in this overheated room.

So you swallow it down, set your glass quietly on the counter, and walk out without a word. The swing door creaks behind you, then thuds shut.

Outside, the night air hits you like a slap—cold, quiet, honest. For a second, you just stand there, letting it all rush over you, wondering if the weight in your chest will ease or finally break.

The moment you reach your real home—not the one you’ve been calling home lately, but the one with your name on the deed—the tears finally came. And they continued throughout your night. In the shower, while you brushed your teeth, when you got in your cold bed.

She laughed. When they asked what you were, she laughed. Not in the way that invited you in, not with warmth or clarity—just a quick, deflective laugh, like the question didn’t deserve an answer.

She was uncomfortable with you. Not just the label—you. And in that moment, something inside you recoiled, folding in on itself, quiet and stinging.

You weren’t someone she wanted to hold in public.

It’s spring again.

The kind of soft, golden spring that used to mean something—late sunsets, shared walks, her laughter in the breeze.

You haven’t seen her in weeks.

Not because you couldn't. Just because you haven’t tried. Messages sit half-written. You scroll past her name like it doesn't still stir something in your chest. When you catch glimpses of her in town, you look the other way before she can notice.

You're not sure if you're giving her space or giving up. But either way, you’re not ready to find out which it is.

You’re still hurting, in ways that surprise you. It wasn’t just what she said—or didn’t say. It was how small you felt, how easy it was for her to laugh like you meant nothing. That feeling doesn’t let go, it's like cold water when you're reminiscing the warmer memories.

They say what goes up must come down—like Newton’s law of nature, simple and unavoidable.

You’ve been keeping your distance, trying to outrun the weight of everything between you and her. But in a town this small, some things just can’t be avoided.

One day, caught in a sudden downpour, you run right into her on the slick sidewalk. The rain falls so heavy it blurs the edges of the world, and there she is. You freeze, goosebumps rising despite the wet cold. Of all the people you could be stuck with out here, it’s her.

Her eyes find yours, and for a moment, you can’t read the expression that settles over her face—something unreadable. You keep your head down, walking past her. Choosing that while you notice how slows, her voice calling out your name softly, the arm that comes to grip your wrist softly. And the hurt flipped like a switch.

Without thinking, you snap—jerking your arm free and stepping back. “What do you want from me?!” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Before she can even speak, you cut her off, continuing. "No! No—we're not doing this again, Wanda."

Behind you, you hear her heels click against the wet pavement, stepping through puddles to keep up. Her voice is pleading, low and trembling as she calls out.

But you keep walking, the distance between you growing with every step, even as her words chase after you in the rain. You shake your head sharply, as if trying to shake her words free from your mind. You want to plug your ears, to block everything out.

You’re by the train tracks now, walking toward the parking lot. Your boots crush through the patch of grass, sinking into the soft mud beneath. The cold rain soaks through your jacket, but you don’t care. You just want to get away.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you catch her again—still following, still calling.

You stop abruptly, spin around, and yell, snapping, “Why won’t you just leave me alone? Haven’t you done enough?”

“The only joke here is you,” you snap, eyes burning. “I thought I was special to you. You took care of me, made me feel like I mattered. But then you just laughed when someone asked what we were—like it was some kind of fucking joke. You touched me like you loved me… so what the hell was—"

“I do love you...” she says softly, stepping closer, her voice barely above the rain. You freeze, heart pounding, caught between disbelief and the sharp sting of old wounds.

“What,” you whisper, voice trembling, “how can you say that now? After everything—after you—”

You start to ramble, words spilling out in a desperate rush, but before you can finish, she crosses the small space between you and presses her lips to yours, cutting you off completely. The rain is cold, you're cold. Clothes seeped with water, drenched. But her lips are warm and just a brush of them against yours and you feel like a furnace. Your arms encircle her neck, her arms gripping your waist. The two of you standing in the middle of the rain, lips locked, desperate.

One thing led to another. You don’t remember how the sidewalk turned into her car, or when your hands found her face again, or how her touch—so familiar, so painfully missed—melted all the anger into something messier, deeper.

Now you’re in the backseat, the windows fogged with breath and rain, her coat half off, your knees bracketing her hips as you straddle her lap. Her hands are firm on your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer like she’s afraid you’ll vanish again.

Your lips are interlocked, hungry and aching, and the space between you—once so thick with silence—is now filled with heat, with urgency, with everything you’ve both been trying not to feel.

Each clothing article is stripped off each other, hands finding each other like it's the first time. Her hands trailing up your waist, cupping your tits as she breaks you down all the more by kissing down your neck.

You're a naked mess in front of her now, gasping into her neck as she presses her two fingers into you. A hand pressed against the car window beside you, the other tugging her hair as you find purchase somewhere. Find stability as you loose your mind with her again. She knows you. Where to angle, where to press, when to add another.

"Wans," you keen, voice full of need, depth. "Please... please..."

She shushes you, "I know... I know, I'm not stopping. I'm not letting you go."

You almost want to laugh at the fact she had a strap in the car, but all that came upon your face was a genuine smile. At the sight, Wanda smiled as well, leaning to kiss your cheek.

She got you situated, gripping your hips as she guided you down onto her length. You looked like sin. Lips swollen, eyes hazy, all the emotions you held for her written in your body language.

A shudder wracked your body when she kissed along your neck, whispering her affection. How beautiful you looked, how well you took her, how much she loved you, how much she missed you.

Even as she brings you to the edge of heaven, you realize you’re already there—just being in her arms again, feeling her breath against your skin, her body beneath yours. It’s not just the heat or the closeness. It’s her. It’s you and her, again.

“Move in with me?” she pants against your neck, almost nervous, voice muffled against your skin, her hands gripping your thighs like she’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You freeze for half a second, breath catching—then you lean in, forehead pressed to hers, and whisper, “Okay.” Your voice is soft, shaky. “Yeah… yeah, okay.”

notes ︴i was listening to DAVID by LORDE when writing this... do with that what you will. hope you enjoyed.