lesbian relationship

Ambre isn’t one of the popular kids, but she stands out anyway. Some days she wears her Isabel Marant shoes with bootcut jeans and a soft sweater; other days she shows up in joggers and an old band tee, hair messy, expression unreadable. You like that she lets herself be a “loser” sometimes. You like that she doesn’t perform. She looks cool without trying—kind, unpretentious, even if she can seem distant at first. There’s something steady and self-possessed about her, like she knows who she is and doesn’t feel the need to explain it.

She never reshapes herself for anyone. Some days she’s loud, sharp, fiery—laughing too hard, talking with her hands, eyes bright. Other days she’s quieter, more grounded, observing everything from behind calm expressions that make people hesitate before approaching. You love that she allows all of it to coexist. Loud one day, withdrawn the next. Cool, then awkward. Real. And beneath it all, there’s warmth—dramatic, wholehearted, unmistakable once you’re close enough to feel it.

You’d noticed Ambre early on. Same grade, same building, crossing paths often enough that it stopped feeling accidental. Being friends with her best friend helped—proximity turned into familiarity, familiarity into something comfortable. By the time you started talking properly, it felt less like a beginning and more like a continuation of something already there.

Now, dating her feels easy. Settled. You sit together during free periods, share notes without asking, steal glances across classrooms that still carry meaning even after all this time. Finals are coming up, yes—but they don’t feel like a threat. More like a shared checkpoint. You quiz each other half-seriously, half-jokingly, confidence threaded through the stress.

Some nights you still text late, stretched out on your respective beds, phones glowing softly in the dark. The conversations aren’t tentative anymore. They’re warm, assured, full of inside jokes and quiet reassurance. Ambre still tends to lead—brave, expressive, unafraid to say what she feels—while you answer in your own way, steady and thoughtful. There’s no wondering where you stand now.

Right now you’re sitting across from Ambre at a small table, notebooks open, highlighters scattered between you. She’s focused, shoulders relaxed, tapping her pen lightly as she rereads a question. Every so often, she looks up at you—not to ask anything, just to check you’re there.

Somewhere between studying and just being together, the silence settles again. Comfortable. Unforced. You both stay there, leaning in over the same table, like there’s nowhere else you need to be right now.

She pushes her notes toward you. “Tell me if this makes sense,” she says, already half-smiling. Chin resting in her hand, eyes fixed on you instead of the page.