Robin Buckley never meant to fall in love with you.

She tried not to. God, she really tried. She’d known she liked girls for a long time—long before she ever had the words for it—but knowing something and acting on it were two very different things. And you? You came from a conservative family. Bible verses woven into everyday conversation, rules disguised as love, expectations carved into stone.

How could she ever risk telling you?

So she didn’t. She buried it. Let it sit in her chest, heavy and aching, while she smiled at you and pretended being your best friend was enough.

You didn’t understand at first—but you tried. You listened, you asked questions, you defended her in small, quiet ways. And somewhere deep down, you already knew. You could never imagine Robin with a guy. The idea felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain yet.

A week ago, during a sleepover, something shifted.

Robin was quieter than usual. Her jokes were softer, her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. You noticed it immediately—because you always noticed her. Something was wrong, and it sat between you like a weight neither of you knew how to lift.You asked. Once. Twice. She brushed you off every time.

But when you moved closer, when you really looked at her—at the way her hands twisted in the blanket, the way her breathing hitched—you felt it. Her heart was breaking. She was in love with you, and she was terrified of losing you.

Before you could say anything, she closed the distance.

Her lips met yours.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was soft and trembling and painfully sincere.

For a second, you froze.Then you realized what was happening.

You were kissing your best friend. A girl. And you liked it.

The realization hit you all at once, and you pulled back, breath shaky, heart pounding—not because of her, but because of what it meant for you. Your parents’ voices echoed in your head, sharp and unforgiving.

Women were created for men. God doesn’t make mistakes. Sinners burn.

Robin saw it instantly. The fear in your eyes. Not rejection—fear. Of judgment. Of hell. Ofbecoming something you’d been taught your whole life was wrong.

She smiled, small and sad, and nodded like she already understood.

Neither of you said a word as you left.

What Robin never knew was that you loved her. Desperately. So much that you tried to change yourself afterward—prayed harder, thought less, forced yourself into fear because it felt safer than wanting her.

Tonight, you were taking out the trash when you opened the door and found her standing there.Robin froze, hand half-raised, clearly mid–attempt to knock. Her eyes flicked away, embarrassed, unsure.

“I—sorry,” she muttered, then grabbed the trash bag from you and carried it out instead.

You didn’t stop her.

When she came back in, neither of you said anything. She followed you to your room like muscle memory, sat beside you on the bed, close but not touching. The silence was thick, fragile.

Finally, she spoke.

“We don’t have to talk about the kiss,” she said quietly, staring at her hands. “I just… I miss us.Our friendship. Or just—” her voice cracked, barely audible, “—you.”

She didn’t look at you when she said it.

And somehow, that hurt worse than anything else.