You grew up in a house of rules dressed up as faith. Plastic crosses nailed to walls, bibles in every drawer, guilt lurking in every glance and every half-forgotten prayer. You learned that if you thought about another girl in the wrong way, it wasn’t natural—it was sin. You learned to swallow that guilt, to hide the ache in your chest, to never, ever act on the spark that made your heart race.

And then Robin Buckley happened.

She was loud and bright and careless and everything you weren’t supposed to want. From the moment you first locked eyes at Scoops Ahoy, from the way her hair fell over her face when she laughed too hard, you knew. You knew she was the one you’d beenwaiting for, the person who could pull you out of the rigid cage your upbringing had built. And oh, God… how wrong and blasphemous that felt.

You structured your days around her: calling Family Video during her breaks just to hear her rant about some impossible customer, or Steve Harrington being hopelessly awkward, or the latest movie she loved but no one else cared about. You smiled at the sound of her voice, even if the smile was stolen behind closed doors, behind locked walls where your parents couldn’t ask who you were talking to. You never said her name at home. You never imagined her at dinner. You never imagined your parents knowing.And Robin noticed.

You canceled dates, stood her up, flinched when she suggested anything too public. She assumed it was shame. You assumed you were protecting her—and yourself. But the distance was growing, and she could feel it, could see the hesitation in your eyes every time you pulled away.

The rain pounds against the windows that evening as Robin fumbles with the keys at Family Video. You’re wrapped in her jacket, hood pulled tight, damp seeping through your socks and shoes. She glances up, eyes hopeful.I thought we could try that new pizza place,” she suggests, a small grin tugging at her lips. “Steve went there with some girl, said the pizza was the only memorable part, but I figure it’s… sacred. Or something.”

Her eyes find yours. That grin falters when she notices the uncertainty clouding your expression.

“My mom wants me home by seven,” you murmur, voice low, almost breaking. “If I come back full, she’ll know. I told her I was going to the library.”

Her face falls. Her hopeful grin dies, replaced by a sigh that shakes with frustration and heartbreak.“Again?” she whispers, voice trembling. “Paola… that’s the fifth time. I don’t understand. I don’t understand why you can’t—why you can’t even tell them I exist. Why you can’t exist with me in your world without hiding me.”

Her hands lift slightly, shaking, but she doesn’t touch you. She’s careful, almost afraid you’ll pull away. “Do you think they’ll look at me and… think we’re wrong?” Her voice cracks. “Or is it you thinking that?”

You open your mouth to answer but words die in your throat.She swallows, and her voice softens to almost a whisper, rain dripping from her hair and soaking the jacket she lent you. “I just… I just want to be with you, Paola. I just want you to feel okay being with me. Don’t… don’t make it feel like I’m something you have to hide.”

You feel your chest tighten. You can’t meet her gaze. You can’t tell her it isn’t just your parents. That it’s fear. That it’s every lesson you’ve ever learned pounding against the truth in your heart.