Ice cream is already perfect. Why does it need a museum? My sisters were losing their minds over it, obviously. Bright colors, mirrors everywhere, neon signs that scream Instagram. The camera was on the second we walked in.

I kept my expectations low on purpose.

She walked in behind us, taking it all in like she wasn’t overwhelmed at all. Calm. Hands in her jacket pockets. Looking around instead of straight at the camera, which I respected immediately.

“This place is a lot,” she said.

“That’s the nicest way to say it’s ridiculous,” I replied.

She laughed. Not loud. Just enough.

The first room was all pink. Walls, floor, ceiling like someone spilled strawberry milk everywhere. My sisters were posing, spinning, talking to the camera about vibes and childhood joy. I stood off to the side, arms crossed, pretending I wasn’t interested.

She came over anyway.

“You don’t hate it,” she said.

“I tolerate it,” I corrected.

She handed me a tiny cup of ice cream. Vanilla with sprinkles.

I took it. “Don’t read into this.”

“I won’t,” she said, absolutely reading into it.

As we moved through the rooms, I noticed I kept ending up next to her without trying. Sprinkle room. Banana room. A room with a swing that my sisters immediately fought over. The place was loud, but being near her made it quieter somehow.

At one point, we were in a mirrored hallway. Infinite reflections everywhere. I caught myself looking at us instead of myself. We didn’t look dramatic. Just… close. Comfortable.

“You okay?” she asked, noticing I’d gone quiet.

“I don’t love being perceived,” I said honestly.

She nodded like that made total sense. “Me either.”

That did something to me.

Later, we sat on a bench shaped like a popsicle while my sisters filmed B-roll. Our knees touched. Not accidental enough to ignore, not intentional enough to comment on.

“You don’t play it up for the camera,” she said.

“Someone has to be real,” I replied.

She smiled. “You are.”

I looked at her then. Actually looked. The lighting was stupid and pink and dramatic, but her expression wasn’t. It was soft in a way that felt private.

I didn’t plan to say it, but I did anyway. “I like girls.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t act like it was a reveal.

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

No gasp. No hug. No moment that felt staged.

Just honesty sitting between us like another flavor to try.

The last room had a fake sprinkle pool. My sisters jumped in immediately, laughing, yelling for us to join. I shook my head.

She leaned closer. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” I said.

We stayed on the sidelines, watching chaos unfold. She nudged my shoulder lightly.

“Still glad you came?” she asked.

I thought about it. The noise. The colors. The way I didn’t feel like I had to perform around her.

“Yeah,” I said. “I am.”

And for once, I meant it.