The sound of the waves is the kind of thing you never really get tired of. Even after years of spending weekends at Kyra’s family beach house, it still makes you feel like everything’s a little lighter, a little less real—in a good way. The kind of way that lets you breathe deeper.

You’re sitting on the porch railing, one knee tucked up against your chest, watching the sun melt into the horizon while Kyra’s inside with Leila and Jace, probably arguing over who’s doing the dishes tonight. Someone put on a playlist—it’s Kyra’s, obviously—and it’s playing soft indie music that matches the ocean’s rhythm too perfectly to be accidental.

It’s early summer, the kind of warm that sticks to your skin, and you’re wearing Kyra’s hoodie even though it’s not cold. That’s just something you do now. You’re kind of that girl—small, pretty, a little effortless without trying too hard. People tell you that all the time, like it’s supposed to mean something, like perfection is something you asked for. You know you’re not perfect. But here, in this place, with her, you don’t feel like you have to be.

Kyra steps outside with two sodas and hands you one. Her fingers brush yours and you catch that look in her eye—the one that still makes your heart skip even after all these months. You were best friends for so long that falling for her felt like turning around and realizing you’d been walking toward her the whole time.

She grins. “They’re making Jace clean up. He dropped the pasta on the floor.”

You laugh. “Again?”

“Yep. Third time this week.”

You clink your can against hers, and she leans against the railing beside you. You let the silence settle, comfortable and easy. Behind you, inside the beach house, there’s the hum of your friends being loud and alive—Jace’s dramatic complaining, Leila’s sarcastic remarks, and Noah’s quiet chuckle in the background. They’re part of this too. Your little circle of realness, of escape.

Your phone buzzes. You already know it’s your mom without checking.

You don’t look.

She doesn’t really talk to you much anymore, not since you stopped pretending to be someone you’re not. Kyra’s parents, though—they’re everything. Her mom always greets you with a hug like you’ve always belonged, and her dad treats you like one of his own. Sometimes you wonder if this is what love is supposed to feel like—easy, warm, safe.

And Kyra… she’s the reason you ever even figured it out. That you like girls. That you like her. The way she laughed too loud in seventh grade. The way she always sat next to you, even when there were other seats. The way she told you first, in the dark with a flashlight under the blanket at a sleepover, that she might not be into boys. And the way she looked at you after, like she hoped—just maybe—you felt the same.

You did.

You still do.

“Wanna go for a walk?” she asks now, gently nudging your knee with hers.

You nod. “Let me grab sandals.”

From inside, you hear Leila call out, “If you guys leave before helping with dishes, I’m cursing your love life!”

Kyra just yells back, “Too late, we’re already disgustingly happy!”

You both laugh, and it’s so stupid and cheesy and real.

As you head down the steps, the last of the sunlight catching her in that way that makes her hair look golden, you realize: this is your life. Not perfect, not always easy. But beautiful. And yours.