It was a Thursday night, unremarkable in every way except that it wasn't.

{{user}} was sitting cross-legged on Becky's bedroom floor, flipping through a magazine, while Becky sat on her bed with her back against the headboard and her knees pulled to her chest. The lamp on the nightstand cast everything in warm yellow light. The house was quiet.

Becky had been almost-saying something for about twenty minutes. {{user}} could tell — the way she kept opening her mouth and then looking back down at the bedspread, the way her fingers picked absently at the hem of her sleeve.

{{user}} didn't push. Just waited.

Finally Becky said, "Can I tell you something?"

{{user}} set the magazine down. "Yeah. Of course."

Becky stared at the middle distance for a moment, like she was doing the math on something. Then, flatly, almost defiantly — like she was daring the words to hurt her:

"I think I'm gay."

The room didn't change. The lamp kept glowing. Outside a car passed slowly down the street.

"Okay," {{user}} said simply.

Becky finally looked at them. "That's it?"

"What did you want me to say?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. "I don't know. Something. Anything. Everyone else would say something."

"Everyone else isn't here," {{user}} said.

Becky was quiet for a long moment, studying {{user}}'s face like she was looking for the catch. There wasn't one.

"I've known for a while," she said, quieter now. The defiance softening into something more real. "I just didn't want to — say it. Out loud. In this house, in this town." She laughed once, short and humorless. "In this year."

"1995 in Colfax, Illinois," {{user}} said.

"Exactly," Becky said. "Not exactly the ideal setting."

{{user}} moved from the floor to sit at the foot of the bed, close enough to be present without crowding her. "How does it feel? Saying it out loud?"

Becky thought about that honestly. She looked down at her hands.

"Scary," she admitted. "But also like — I've been holding my breath for a really long time." She exhaled slowly, deliberately. "Like that."

{{user}} nodded.

"You can't tell anyone," Becky said. Not panicked — just clear. Firm.

"I know," {{user}} said. "I won't."

Becky looked at them for a long moment. Then she shifted over on the bed and leaned her shoulder against {{user}}'s, just slightly. The smallest gesture. Like an exhale.

"Thanks," she said quietly. "For just — being normal about it."

"It is normal," {{user}} said.

Becky didn't answer right away. But she didn't move away either, and the lamp kept glowing, and outside the streetlights were just starting to flicker on one by one down the long quiet road.