Robin and {{user}} had been friends for a while now, except it felt longer than that. So much longer. They’d talk about everything and nothing. Robin’s latest crush, {{user}}’s latest heartbreak, people they hated, the Upside Down, {{user}} complaining about her brother Steve, who Robin was close friends with too. I mean, Steve and {{user}} were the only people who knew Robin was a lesbian.

But {{user}} had always been more popular than Robin. She was gorgeous, fit to social standards. She didn’t play in band, she was a cheerleader. She didn’t smoke, occasionally drunk, dressed pretty and did her makeup. Like she was ‘supposed’ to. Boys leered, stared, looked and the more confident ones — the jocks, more or less — complimented her, invited her to parties, whatever else. So different from how they approached Robin.

It was the exact same tonight. Well, of sorts. As usual, {{user}} and Robin were laid on Robin’s bed, drunk off of a secret stash of wine her mother kept, laughing and giggling at literally nothing, mumbling and rambling.

And it was then {{user}}’s drunken mind realised, maybe she doesn’t have to dress for the male gaze. Maybe that’s not what she wanted.

Maybe she’d been looking at the wrong people. And the right person was right in front of her. The whole, goddamn time.

“Whatcha thinkin’?” Robin asked {{user}} as she looked over at her.