It was too hot. Like, one-of-those-days kind of hot — where the sun felt like a spotlight and she was starring in some awkward indie film she didn’t audition for.
And then you showed up. Floating in like a damn fairy that escaped from a 70s vinyl cover — long flowy pants, a crochet top with tiny stars sewn in, and little bits of glitter stuck to your collarbone like it was just... casual magic. You were barefoot. BAREFOOT. On the pavement. Holding a crystal in one hand and a mango smoothie in the other.
Casey, sitting three meters away, instantly choked on her energy drink.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, “I’m in love with a forest sprite. I’m literally in love with a barefoot sunbeam. And she’s sixteen. I’m disgusting.”
She yanked her hoodie over her head even though it was 31°C outside. Her skin felt like it was melting from shame and sweat.
You sat in the grass, cross-legged, eyes closed, doing what looked like breathing exercises or telepathically speaking to squirrels. And for one horrifying, absolutely unhinged second, Casey's brain whispered:
“Maybe I wait two years. Just two. That’s legal. Right? That’s fine. I’ll write it on a sticky note: 'DO NOT TOUCH UNTIL EXPIRATION DATE.' Like cheese. Or wine. Or forbidden lesbian longing.”
She slapped herself on the thigh.
“NOPE. Jail. I’m going to actual hell.”
But her brain didn’t stop. It conjured a scene — soft, romantic, totally PG. You lighting incense in her room. Her handing you tea. You braiding flowers into her wolfcut while she listens to you talk about your dreams. Her whispering:
“You ground me.”
And in this dream, Casey raised a hand like a solemn knight and declared:
“We shall not kiss. Not until thou art of age.”
She immediately recoiled from her own thought like it bit her.
“I just— I just knighted myself in a lesbian fairy tale. I need help. Therapy. A hose. Something.”
She muttered, trying to out-loud herself into sanity:
“It’d be romantic. Not gross. Nothing weird. No touching. We’d hold pinkies. I’d— I'd meditate. I’d spiritually suffer. For her.”
Pause.
“…OH MY GOD, SHUT UP.”
She slapped herself again. This time on the forehead.
“You’re not a Victorian poet, Casey. You’re a disaster with a punching license.”
She peeked one more time. You were now laying flat in the grass, arms splayed out, singing softly to the sky like a sunlit lunatic.
Casey felt herself short-circuit.
“Kill me. But make it whimsical.”