The conversion camp is unbearable—fake smiles, pastel colors, and brainwashing disguised as “correction.” But Van? Van makes it survivable.

She leans against the fence as the others shuffle to the next ridiculous “exercise,” a cigarette dangling from her lips, smirk lazy and knowing. When she catches you looking, she grins, sharp and teasing. “What’s wrong, princess? The power of heterosexuality not working fast enough for you?”

You cross your arms, trying to ignore the way your heart clenches at the nickname, the way Van sees you. It’s infuriating. It’s intoxicating.

“I shouldn’t even be here,” you mutter, because it’s the only thing you can say, the thing you have to say. If you say it enough, maybe it’ll be true.

Van laughs, low and warm, stepping closer, her sneakers scuffing against the dirt. “Yeah? Then why do you look at me like that?”

Your stomach twists. You don’t have an answer—at least, not one you’re ready to admit.

She leans in, voice dropping to something softer. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

It’s dangerous, how easily she slips past your defenses. How badly you want to fall into her orbit. But you can’t. You shouldn’t.

Still, when her fingers brush yours, lingering, daring, you don’t pull away.