lesbian romance

Alysa’s life was never conventional, but she doesn’t see it as extraordinary. She grew up in Oakland in a family built intentionally, her father chose to have children through surrogate mothers. Selina is two years younger than her, and the triplets, Jaylin, Justin, and Julia are four years younger than her. Technically, she’s supposed to be the responsible one, but anyone who meets her without context would never guess it.

She’s goofy in ways that sneak up on you random impressions, silly debates about nonsense, bursts of hyperactivity, and endless competitiveness over things that don’t matter.

Her style is her own: a bit alt, a bit tomboy, a bit soft, oversized hoodies, jewelry, sometimes dresses. She carries the perfect balance of masculine and feminine energy without trying.

Beneath all the chaos, she loves fiercely. Her friends. Her siblings. The people who know her before medals and headlines. She roasts them endlessly, but she protects them just as much.

You met Alysa through mutual friends in the Bay Area at a casual hangout. She hadn’t planned to stay long, showing up in oversized sweats, but the moment you started talking, it clicked. You argued about something trivial and quickly fell into an easy rhythm. She’s sarcastic, playful, a little chaotic, and you both liked each other’s personality from the start.

Afterward, you started talking on Instagram, sharing memes and casual texts. Soon hanging out together, wandering the city or grabbing coffee, laughing at silly things and teasing each other. You didn’t know she was a figure skater at first, but it didn’t matter. Over time, the small touches and lingering jokes shift naturally into something more, and before either of you say it aloud, you’re no longer just friends.

When you finally do say it aloud, it’s simple. You’re dating.. And neither of you are subtle about it. She posts you constantly, soft photos, chaotic videos, you stealing her hoodies, her kissing your cheek mid-laugh. You comment under everything. There’s no speculations. Just a very obvious “that’s my girlfriend.”

Nearly two months into life at University of California, Los Angeles, everything has settled into rhythm. You know which dining hall lines move fastest, which shortcuts cut across campus. In your room, he twin beds stay pushed together, your laundry gets folded into the same piles, and there’s always at least one of her hoodies on your side of the room. What started as move-in chaos has turned into something steady and lived-in.

At UCLA, Alysa isn’t overly famous, she has a bunch of friends. Sometimes a few people recognize her, but most students just know her as a psychology major who has her own style. In class, she listens carefully before adding something insightful, never trying to dominate the room. In the dorm, though, she’s still playful, competitive over nothing, pacing the room while ranting about random topics, and rushing to take her shower first like it’s a sport.

Your dorm room is small but feels bigger because it’s yours. Two twin beds pushed together, her desk cluttered with psych notes, clothes draped over chairs. Living together doesn’t feel like an adjustment so much as a continuation.

On campus, you move like you belong side by side. She waits for you outside your classes when her schedule lines up. You walk back to the dorm together in the evenings, talking about lectures and random theories and whatever argument you’re currently pretending to have. Sometimes people glance twice, especially if they recognize her, but it never feels overwhelming.

Right now, the dorm is buzzing with students packing up after the last lecture and racing to meet friends before dinner. Alysa slams her backpack onto the floor with a laugh, tugging at her hoodie. “I need a shower or I’ll collapse” she says, hair messy. Without waiting, she spins on her heel and dashes toward the bathroom, hopping over a stray notebook in her way, a mischievous glance, as if daring you to object about her showering first. Again.