"Two girls pretend to be straight at school but behind the art building, their kisses aren't so innocent."
Tamsin's reputation was carefully manicured, like the school's hedge garden. Cheer captain. Honor roll. The kind of girl who waved at teachers in the hallway and gave prom-queen smiles to everyone even those who didn't deserve them.
But behind all of that was me.
Lena.
Not the other girl.
Not the one with the high ponytail or boyfriend waiting by the lockers.
I was the shadow.
The hidden half of her truth.
We weren't supposed to be anything.
It started with a missed bus. We were both in detention for entirely different reasons. She'd skipped history to sneak off campus; I'd been caught drawing a too-detailed sketch of our geometry teacher. Detention had been silent until she slid her desk an inch closer to mine and said:
"You're the one who draws behind the bleachers, right?"
I didn't look at her.
"I've seen your work," she said. "You're good."
My heart thudded a little too loudly for such a casual comment.
She leaned in. "Can you draw me?"
That was the start.
The art building stood apart from the rest of the school half-forgotten and quiet, with ivy trailing down one wall and a sculpture garden no one visited except during finals. We started meeting there under the excuse of "creative collaboration." She would model while I sketched. She said it made her feel like someone else.
I liked her that way. Raw, unfiltered. Without lip gloss or layers of performance.
That day, it was raining. The sky was low and grey, and the art room smelled like turpentine and secrets. Tamsin had curled up on the window seat in her hoodie and jeans, staring out at the drizzle.
"Draw me like this," she said.
"Moody?"
"Honest."
I started sketching, my pencil slow and careful.
Her voice was soft. "Do you ever want to kiss someone and pretend it didn't happen after?"
I froze. My pencil stalled mid-stroke.
"I mean," she said quickly, "not because it was bad. Just because the world isn't ready for it."
I looked up. Our eyes locked.
"That's how I feel about you," she whispered.
Behind the art building, everything changed.
We were no longer Tamsin the cheerleader or Lena the weirdo artist. We were just two girls, breathing hard, hiding in plain sight. The ivy-covered brick wall became our confessional booth. Our sanctuary.
It started with hands.
Hers brushing mine while passing her a brush.
Then it became shoulders leaning together on the cold concrete.
Then breath. Close. Closer. Not quite kissing.
Until one day, she pulled me toward her, fast and desperate, and our mouths collided like we'd been waiting all year.
Her lips were soft but full of tension. I remember the gasp she made when I touched her cheek, and how her fingers twisted in the hem of my shirt like she didn't know whether to hold on or let go.
When we finally pulled apart, we stood there panting.
She laughed softly. "I thought you'd be gentler."
"You kissed me," I said.
She grinned. "So I did."
At school, we never spoke of it.
She walked next to her quarterback boyfriend, fingers laced with his like it was a job.
I walked past her, pretending her eyes didn't follow me.
But in the afternoons, behind the art building, she pulled me into her world again.
Sometimes it was just kissing.
Other times, she told me stories about how hard it was to be perfect all the time. How much pressure there was to keep smiling, keep pleasing.
Once, she cried into my hoodie. She said she didn't know who she was without other people telling her.
"Then maybe," I whispered, holding her tightly, "you're finally becoming you."
The day things fell apart started like any other.
She brought iced coffee and pretended not to blush when our fingers touched.
I brought a sketch of her laughing, the real her, the one only I got to see.
But then we heard footsteps.
Voices.
Two girls from the junior soccer team rounded the corner, and before either of us could move, they froze catching us nose to nose, locked in a closeness that was unmistakable.
Tamsin jumped back.
Lied so fast it hurt.
"She was fixing my earring," she stammered.
They stared.
"I dropped something, that's all."
They didn't believe her.
Neither did I.
Rumors spread like wildfire by second period.
By lunch, everyone knew something had happened behind the art building.
Not the whole story but enough of it.
And by the time I walked past Tamsin at her table of cheerleaders, she didn't look up.
She didn't say a word.
That week, she avoided me.
No messages. No visits. Not even the "accidental" brushes in the hallway.
I felt hollow.
Betrayed, maybe.
But mostly, I just missed her.
Friday, it rained again.
The same soft drizzle as the day we first kissed.
I went to the art building anyway because hope is stupid like that.
I sat by the wall. Waited.
Sketched nothing.
Then I heard the sound of wet shoes on stone.
I didn't look up until she spoke.
"I hate myself," she said, soaked and shivering. "I hate that I lied."
I looked at her.
She was crying again, but this time it wasn't quiet.
"I was scared," she sobbed. "Not of you. Of what it meant. Of losing everything."
"You didn't lose me," I said gently.
She dropped to her knees in front of me. "Do I still have you?"
"Do you still want me?" I whispered.
She didn't answer with words.
Just kissed me softer this time. Like an apology. Like a question.
And I kissed her back.
Because even if the world wasn't ready we were.
Monday morning, she walked into school holding my hand.
There were whispers. Wide eyes. People stared but she didn't let go.
She looked them all in the eye and smiled.
Not the cheerleader smile.
The real one.
Just for me.