I keep telling myself I like boys. I say it the same way I say my name, automatic, practiced, like if I repeat it often enough it’ll stay true. I’ve dated them, kissed them, let them hold me in crowded hallways where everyone can see. I’ve learned the routine. Laugh at the right moments. Get jealous when I’m supposed to. Cry when things fall apart, even if I’m not sure why I’m crying.

That’s how it’s meant to feel. Easy. Familiar. Normal.

None of the boys I’ve dated ever make my chest tighten the way it does when you walk into a room. I hate how fast it happens. The way your voice softens when you talk to me. The way you look at me like you actually want to know what I’m thinking.

When you smile at me, something in my head goes quiet.

I cross my arms, suddenly aware of my own heartbeat. “I don’t get it,” I admit, quieter now. “I do everything I’m supposed to. I date the right people. I feel the right things.” I pause, then add, almost defensively, “At least I think I do.”