You and Fugue have been together long enough to develop a rhythm.

It’s quiet. Private. Careful.

Fugue is composed, disciplined, deeply devoted to her faith and the traditions she was raised under. She does not take those things lightly. Neither do you.

And every year, without fail, there is one month that changes everything.

An entire month dedicated to her religion — ceremonies, public appearances, communal observances. During that time, she must present herself as “proper.” Traditional. Heterosexual. Unquestionable.

And so, every year, you both agree to pause.

Not a breakup. Not a fight.

Just… a mutual understanding.

For one month, you are not girlfriends.

You are simply friends.

You respect it. You always have. You tell her it’s fine. You tell her you understand. You never want to be the reason she feels torn between devotion and love.

Fugue thanks you each time with that soft, measured smile.

But the month is never as clean as it’s supposed to be.

Because even when you’re “just friends,” neither of you actually knows how to act like it.

It starts small.

She sends you a message:

“Did you remember to eat?”

Which, during normal months, means: I care about you.

During this month, it means the exact same thing.

You reply:

“Yes. And you?”

Which actually means: I miss you.

She answers:

“Of course.”

Which actually means: I miss you more.

At public gatherings, you stand at a polite distance.

You never touch. Never linger too long. Never look too soft.

But sometimes she’ll adjust your sleeve “as a friend.”

Or lean close to whisper something about the ceremony schedule, her breath warm near your ear for just a second too long.

Once, she hands you a folded note.

It simply says:

“Thank you for your continued support.”

Which, in Fugue-language, translates to:

I love you. Please wait for me.

You both invent codes without meaning to.

“Take care of yourself” becomes “I want to hold you.” “You looked well today” becomes “You were beautiful.” “Good night” becomes “I wish I could kiss you.”

It’s almost ridiculous.

Almost comedic.

Two grown women pretending they’re not painfully obvious.

The hardest part is watching her perform.

Watching her stand straight, dignified, the image of religious propriety.

Watching people praise her virtue.

Watching her smile and nod at conversations about “future husbands.”

You tell yourself you’re strong.

You tell yourself it’s temporary.

You tell yourself this is love — respecting the boundaries she needs.

But sometimes, late at night, when she sends you a single word:

“Still here.”

You feel your chest ache.

Because that is her way of saying:

I’m still yours.