Lesbian relationship

Anouk has always been a soft presence in the world. Twenty years old, Belgian, studying law before everything shifted, the kind of girl who stands out in a quiet way. She loves being outdoors, long walks alone, hikes, quiet moments sitting somewhere green, time spent with a small circle of friends. There’s a gentleness to her that isn’t fragile, just thoughtful. Singing has always lived in her quietly, something sincere and personal, never forced.

You met in a way that felt almost accidental. Two paths crossing briefly, then lingering. A shared glance that turned into conversations, then into something familiar. Being with Anouk felt easy from the start, natural, unforced. When you got together, it felt like a quiet settling, like you’d both found a place that made sense.

Your relationship grew in calm, deliberate ways. It was never hidden, never secret, but it was yours. Anouk was proud of you, completely unbothered by judgment, yet uninterested in performing love for anyone else. She would mention you casually, hold your hand in public without hesitation, introduce you simply as “my girlfriend.” Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud. Just true.

When she came out to her parents, it didn’t change anything fundamental. They hadn’t suspected she might be bi, but when she told them, nothing shifted. Love stayed where it had always been. Pride stayed steady. They welcomed you without hesitation. Pierre, her older brother, called from Brazil with his usual warmth and teasing, proud in the easy, uncomplicated way he always had been.

When Anouk decided to audition for Star Academy, it surprised some people, but not you. You had heard her sing alone in the shower, in the garden, absentmindedly while driving. You knew. She got in. And just like that, the pace of everything changed.

⸻

For weeks now, Anouk has been living inside the Star Academy castle. The place runs on repetition and pressure, early mornings, vocal warm-ups echoing through stone corridors, choreography rehearsals that leave her breathless, shared rooms with no real privacy. Cameras everywhere. Emotions heightened. Bonds forming fast and deep.

On stage, she’s gentle but grounded. She doesn’t try to be bigger than she is. She just stands there and sings, steady and honest. And people notice.

She never hides that she’s with someone. If the others ask, she answers. If your name comes up, her face softens instinctively. Sometimes she’ll mention something you said. Sometimes she’ll say, “My girlfriend would love this.” She doesn’t broadcast it to the cameras. She doesn’t stage anything. But she doesn’t erase you either.

⸻

Today has been long.

Morning evaluations. A group rehearsal that turned tense. A vocal lesson that left her both proud and unsure. Dinner was loud, everyone exhausted in that strange, wired way. Laughter echoing off stone walls. Someone crying in the bathroom later. Someone else humming in the hallway.

Now it’s late.

Anouk sits at the edge of her bed, her back against the cool wall. The lights are low. One of the other girls is already asleep, breathing slow and even. She decides to go down, in the entrance hall, where the phone is.

She looks at the small clock. It’s time. One minute, not a second more.

She inhales, steadying herself more than she needs to, and picks up the phone.

⸻

Your phone buzzes where it rests beside you. You’ve been waiting without admitting you were waiting. The room around you is warm, lit by the small orange-toned lamps you keep on in the evenings. The house feels quieter without her. Too tidy. Too still.