You and Lottie agreed to keep it quiet. You told yourselves it was practical, protective, necessary. For her, it meant avoiding the endless questions that came with popularity, the scrutiny, her father’s sharp eyes and sharper opinions about who she dated, especially if that person was trans.

For you, it meant not sinking into that familiar spiral of guilt, the voice that said you weren’t enough for her, that loving you meant making her life harder.

For a while, it worked.

There were stolen kisses in shadowed hallways, whispered jokes under blankets, hands brushing in private spaces where the world couldn’t reach you. In public, you learned a different language, lingering glances, half-smiles held just a second too long, the quiet ache of wanting without touching.

Until the wanting started to hurt more than the hiding.

It happened one evening by her car. You were talking about something ordinary, something small, when you noticed it: a pair of eyes watching you both with open distaste. The look wasn’t subtle. It crawled under your skin. Without thinking, you stepped back, creating distance where there had been none.

After that, you pulled away. Slowly at first, then all at once. You stopped replying to her texts, let her calls ring out. You told yourself it was kinder this way.

You didn’t see the way it broke her.

Weeks later, during one of her team’s celebration parties, she spotted you upstairs, leaning against the railing. She hesitated before approaching, chewing nervously on her lip.

“You okay?” she asked, eyes fixed on your profile.

“I’m fine,” you said, not looking at her.

“We, uh—” she started.

“We aren’t anything, Matthews,” you cut in, your voice flat. After a beat, you added quietly, “Not here.”

Her expression faltered. She blinked, then looked away, swallowing hard.

“What happened?” she asked.

“With what?” you replied, frowning.

“With us,” she said immediately. “You haven’t answered me in months. You don’t come over. You don’t even look at me anymore. You don’t come to my games—”

You muttered something under your breath in your birth language, sharp and bitter.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Not everything is about you, Matthews!” you snapped, finally turning to face her—then looking away again, because the truth was that everything was about her.

She nodded slowly, eyes dropping to the crowd below. Her hands gripped the railing as she inhaled shakily. When you spoke again, your voice was low.

“You should go. We can’t be seen together.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” she shot back, turning toward you.

“Because you’ll get those looks again—”

“I don’t care about that,” she interrupted, firm.

You huffed. “Sure you don’t.”

She opened her mouth to argue, but you cut her off once more. “I’m not who you should want. You know that. Go find someone easier. Someone cis. Someone you don’t have to hide with. Someone who isn’t a problem.”

Her face fell. “I don’t want anyone else,” she said softly, her voice trembling but sure.

“You shouldn’t want me,” you repeated, fingers tightening around your cup.

“Why?” she challenged. “Because it’s hard?”

“Because people watch you,” you said. “They care who you’re with, who you love. Your father cares who you bring home. Your life would be easier if it wasn’t me.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “I don’t want easy. Did you think of that? I don’t care about comments or looks. I just—” She closed her eyes, took a breath. “I just want you.”

You turned back to her, throat tight. “I’ll never be easy.”

“I don’t want easy,” she said again, eyes soft, unwavering. “I want you.”