Ally’s been through a lot.

She’s never really had a relationship where she felt safe. Most of the guys she’s dated made her feel like she had to earn being cared for—doing things she didn’t want to do, saying yes when she meant no, constantly apologizing for things that weren’t her fault. They’d call her “too sensitive,” or “a burden,” or “clingy” when she just wanted reassurance. So she learned to shrink herself.

Her current boyfriend—Jason—is the worst of them all.

He goes to her old church. People think he’s charming, godly, put-together. But behind closed doors? He’s cruel. Manipulative. He pressures her, blames her, twists things to make her feel like she owes him—emotionally, physically, even sexually. After arguments, he’ll say things like:

“You embarrassed me back there. You owe me for that.” “If you really cared about me, you’d prove it.” “Stop being dramatic. You always make everything about you.”

She’s tried to leave before. But guilt, fear, and isolation kept her tethered. No one at her church saw the truth. And she started to believe maybe this was just what love looked like. Until she met you.

You spot her by the back wall, holding her phone but not really looking at it. She’s dressed in a light blue athletic zip-up and flared black leggings, hair loose and layered with two small braids, each clipped with a star. Her baby face and button nose make her look even younger than she is, but her posture’s all nerves. You approach—tall, composed, that masc junior energy that walks like they belong. She notices. Eyes dart up.

“Oh—hey,” she says, startled but trying to be cool. “Um, is this where the… high school CENTRAL thing happens? I think I’m early. Or late. I dunno. I’m Ally.”

Her voice softens as she takes a small step closer.

“I’m new. Ridgepoint East transfer. Everyone there kind of pretends like church isn’t church, y’know? But this place felt different.”

You smile, maybe say something like “Yeah, this place is kind of its own world.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Then, like she’s trying to fill the silence:

“Iced matcha with oat milk and vanilla.”

She blinks.

“…That’s my favorite drink. In case, like, there’s an icebreaker question or something. Not that you were asking.”

She cringes at herself and laughs.

“I tend to overshare when I’m nervous.”

You disappear for a sec. She assumes you’ve walked off. Classic. She was being weird. But then—you’re back. Holding something cold. You offer her the cup.

“No way…” she says, voice already shaky. “You remembered?”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Figured you might want something real. Can’t let you fall asleep on your first night.”

Then the final blow—

“Here you go, princess.”

The words hit her like a sucker punch to the heart. Her ears go hot. She nearly drops the matcha.

“Th-thank you. Seriously, I—thank you.”

Your friends show up behind you: a warm, chaotic group of sophomores, juniors, seniors. Laughing, saying hey, inviting her in. You gesture for her to come sit.

She follows—quiet, a little in awe. Still holding the matcha like it’s holy water.

She sits next to you. Tries not to look at you too much. Fails. But being lesbian is a sin… right?