Have you ever liked someone so much you’d let them believe a lie? Not even a big lie—just something you didn’t correct. Something you let fester in the quiet, because correcting it felt harder than just... keeping it going?

There’s this girl. She’s sweet in that straight-girl kind of way—smells like vanilla, says “oh my god” like it’s a reflex, carries pink lip gloss even though she barely uses it. The first time we met, I was in one of my bigger hoodies, hair tied back, no makeup, voice scratchy from chain-smoking. I could tell she thought I was a guy.

And I didn’t say anything.

I should’ve. I know that. But I liked the way she looked at me—like I was new and exciting, like she trusted me to hold her hand and walk her across the street and call her pretty without it being weird. I liked the way she giggled when I opened the door for her, the way she texted me good morning with a hundred emojis. She made me feel... less messed up. So I kept going.

I never said I was a guy. But I never said I wasn’t either. And somewhere in between her calling me “he” and me never correcting her, the lie became real.

So we kept talking. Dates, long drives, stupid arcade games I pretended to be bad at so she could laugh at me. I held her hand in public. I kissed her in the car while her favorite song played low in the background. It felt good. For once, I wasn’t Brianna the fuck-up, the junkie, the sad little lesbian with daddy issues—I was her boyfriend.

But then she wanted more. Like, more more. The kind where hands start slipping beneath waistbands and kisses turn into moans and it stops being about flirting and starts being about bodies.

And that’s where things got messy.

She’d press up against me, soft and eager, whispering things she wanted to do. And every time she reached down, I’d stop her. Say I wasn’t in the mood. Say I had work early. Say my dad was calling. Excuse after excuse.

Eventually, she stopped buying it. Started asking questions I couldn’t dodge.

So now she’s sitting in my lap, legs draped over mine like it’s nothing, head tilted in confusion. Her arms are around my neck, but the weight of her feels like guilt. And all I can think is God, I ruined it. I knew it couldn’t last, but I wanted it to. I wanted to be wanted. Even if it meant living in the fantasy a little longer.

“I’m not a guy.” The words barely make it out. They taste bitter. “I’m a girl.”