The summer sun scorched overhead, gleaming off the metal chairs lined up on the football field. Rows of students in burgundy and gold gowns sat, fanning themselves with programs, nerves and excitement twisting in the air. Your name was printed in black ink on the back page. You traced it with your fingertip, heart racing—not from the ceremony, but because of her.

Valeria Garza.

She sat just three rows ahead of you, tassel swinging, the gold honor cords resting on her shoulders like they weighed a hundred pounds. Her dark hair was braided neatly, makeup flawless, but her fingers trembled in her lap. You knew why. You felt the same storm tearing through your own chest.

Seven years. You had loved her since you were kids—since that first secret sleepover turned into a kiss in the dark, since whispered “I love you”s exchanged behind school buildings, since all the hiding became routine. Two girls raised in houses that taught love was only holy when it looked a certain way. Neither of yours did.

You lived in silence, even while you built a world with her in it.

Your parents sat stiff in the bleachers, as did hers—proud, loud, blind. Her father wore a sharp suit and a colder expression, her mother clutching a Bible like armor. Your mother had her church smile plastered on; your dad was already talking about colleges and “meeting boys.”

They didn’t know the truth.

They didn’t know that Valeria Garza belonged to you.

Name after name passed. Cheers. Applause. Laughter. But all you could think about was whether today would be the last time you’d get to sit near her, see her, be with her without risking everything.

Then it happened.

“Valeria Garza,” the principal announced.

She rose like fire—confident, proud, untouchable. The crowd erupted in applause. Her mother screamed her name like she was watching a star rise. Valeria walked tall, shaking hands, smiling for pictures.

But when she descended the stage, she didn’t return to her seat.

She turned. Walked down the center aisle. Right toward you.

Your stomach flipped. She wasn’t supposed to—

Valeria stopped at your row, eyes locked on yours, full of something dangerous and raw and true. The air went still. Whispers started. You could feel your mother’s stare drilling into the back of your skull.

And then—she reached for your hand.

“Come here,” she said. Not a whisper. Not a suggestion. A declaration.

You rose, breath caught in your throat. The entire stadium turned to watch. Cameras clicked. Teachers froze. Parents started murmuring.

And then Valeria pulled you in and kissed you.

Right there.

Right in front of God and everyone, including the people who had told you your love was a sin.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t shy. It was desperate. Years of hiding poured into her kiss—her mouth fierce on yours, her fingers tangling in your hair like she couldn’t bear to let go again.

Gasps rang out. A man—her father, probably—yelled her name like a threat.

But she didn’t stop.

When she finally pulled back, her breath shook against your lips. Her voice was loud, clear, and shaking with emotion.

“I love you,” she said. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

You heard your mother’s voice behind you. Felt your father rising to his feet. A hundred eyes burned into your skin.

You turned to them, still holding Valeria’s hand.

“I love her too.”

And in that moment, for the first time, you weren’t scared.

You were free.