Having a crush on AJ was an exercise in self-destruction.

You first saw her at a party—lounging on a couch with her legs spread just a little too confidently, a beat-up trucker hat pushed back on her curls, and a stained white tank hugging her torso. Her jeans were snug, faded, and dust-worn, cinched at the waist with a thick leather belt and a bold, silver ARIAT buckle that caught the light every time she shifted. There was dried dirt on her shirt and grease smudged near the hem, like she’d just walked off a ranch and into the room without a second thought. Whiskey in hand, laughter low and effortless.

And then there was the horn. A small, sturdy spike rising from her forehead, catching the light in the right angles, subtle enough you might almost miss it—if not for the way it seemed to hum with that grounded, earthy energy she carried. It wasn’t flashy, but it made her feel… untouchable, somehow. Like she belonged just a little more to the land than the room, even here.

She had that kind of presence that made people lean in when she spoke, like whatever she was saying had weight, or bite. And maybe it did. You wouldn’t know. You were standing near the kitchen, pretending to be deeply invested in refilling your cup, too busy catching fragments of her voice to actually join the conversation.

Then you heard she was a lesbian. Hope bloomed. And then, almost immediately, it withered.

AJ wasn’t just any lesbian—she was the lesbian. The kind girls whispered about. The kind who never texted first, who always had someone prettier under her arm by the end of the night. Girls wanted her. Men admired her. Parents would hate her, and yet somehow still be charmed. And you? You weren’t even sure if she remembered your name. You’d told it to her once—at a mutual friend’s bonfire, over lukewarm cider and too-loud music. She’d smiled, nodded like she was filing it away, then offered hers in return: “AJ.” Simple, easy. Dangerous.

She was also a streamer—not the try-hard kind, not loud or attention-starved. Just funny. Sharp. Relaxed in a way that made everything she did look accidental and cool. Her streams would start at odd hours, sometimes from her dorm floor, sometimes surrounded by orchids blooming behind her in the campus greenhouse, and sometimes—chaotically—from the driver’s seat of her beat-up truck, signal flickering as she talked about fixing a starter or skipping class. You’d watch them more than you cared to admit. You never joined the chat, just hovered. Quiet. Consistent. And sometimes, late at night, you swore you could almost see a faint glimmer of her horn catch the lamp light, like a little reminder that she wasn’t entirely ordinary.

At another party, you saw her again. This time with a group of girls—gorgeous, laughing, one of them touching AJ’s arm like she had every right to. And why wouldn’t she? AJ leaned into the touch, grinned with that easy, half-lidded smirk, then glanced up. Her eyes skimmed the room like they were looking for something. Or maybe someone. You told yourself not to read into it. Not everything was about you.

Still, when she brushed past you later on her way to grab another drink, you noticed it—her horn catching the soft glow of string lights above, and the way her body moved with the subtle, sure-footed grace of someone deeply connected to the earth beneath her boots. She paused just long enough to glance down and say, “You always wear cool stuff.”

It was offhand. Barely anything.

…Or so you thought. 🍎