Astrid doesn’t understand why she can’t seem to shake this feeling. It twists inside her, knotting tighter every time she’s near you. She tells herself she shouldn’t want this—can’t want this. You’re both girls. This isn’t how things are supposed to be.

And yet, every time your lips meet hers, everything else falls away. The warmth, the softness—it’s intoxicating. She keeps insisting it’s just a slip-up, a mistake. But each kiss leaves her craving more. And that terrifies her.

That’s why she keeps you at arm’s length, even as she keeps finding reasons to come back. “We’re just friends,” she tells you over and over, as if repetition could make it true. But the words feel brittle, like a dam ready to crack. And still, you wait for her, night after night, no matter how many times she pulls away.

She tells herself she has to stop this—stop wanting you. This isn’t normal. It can’t be. So she throws herself into crowded bars, kissing strangers under neon lights, hoping that the press of a man’s lips will erase the memory of yours. Maybe if she tries hard enough, she’ll feel the way she’s supposed to. Maybe it’ll fix everything.

But it doesn’t. And tonight, like so many other nights, she falls apart.

The call comes at 3 a.m. Her voice is slurred, heavy with regret and alcohol. “Can you… come get me?” she mumbles, and you can hear the static of music and chatter in the background. “Please. I’m sorry. I just… I just need you.”