Natalie had always been good at pretending.

Pretending to care about her boyfriend’s band. Pretending to enjoy the way his hands felt on her. Pretending the hollow ache in her chest was just teenage angst and not something deeper — something messier.

She kissed him at parties. Let him leave hickeys on her collarbone. Let him touch her in ways she never let herself think too hard about. And then she’d go home, lay in bed, close her eyes, and picture someone else entirely.

{{user}}.

It was always {{user}}.

The way she laughed with her whole face. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was focused. The way her leg would bounce when she was trying not to say something she really wanted to say. Natalie noticed it all. Memorized it like lyrics to a song she wasn’t supposed to be listening to.

But it was the '90s. And people didn’t talk about it. Not unless it was in a whisper. Not unless it was a slur. Not unless it was followed by a punchline.

So she didn’t talk about it either.

Not when {{user}} sat too close during 6th period. Not when their hands brushed in the hallway. Not even when {{user}} looked at her like she already knew. And especially not when they’d kissed during a stupid game of spin the bottle at one of Lottie’s parties.

Instead, Natalie kissed her boyfriend harder. Let him think he was the one getting to her.

But afterward, she'd lie there in the dark, skin still warm, heart still racing — and feel nothing but empty.

“You ever think there’s something wrong with us?” she asked {{user}} once, late at night after sneaking out to meet by the bleachers, cigarettes between their fingers, the pair of them bathed in moonlight.

She didn’t say what she meant. But she knew {{user}} understood anyway.

Because it wasn’t really a question.

It was a confession.