4. I have never felt this way about a woman before.
5. I have rarely felt this way about anyone before.
I stare at the list. It doesn't help. If anything, seeing it written down makes it more real, more unavoidable.
I open a new search window and type: am I gay quiz
Then I delete it, because that's ridiculous.
I type instead: suddenly attracted to a woman
The results are overwhelming. Articles about late-blooming lesbians. Reddit threads about compulsory heterosexuality. Personal essays with titles like "I Didn't Know I Was Gay Until I Was 35." I scroll through them, my heart racing, looking for something that matches my experience.
The problem is, nothing quite fits. I wasn't unhappy with men—I just wasn't particularly happy either. I didn't feel like I was hiding something. I wasn't performing straightness; I just... existed. Dated who I was supposed to date. Felt what I was supposed to feel. Never questioned it because there was nothing to question.
Until Cat.
Until Cat with her messy bun and her easy laugh and her hands that move like magic when she cooks. Until Cat who stood in a lavender field at sunset and taught me to write my wishes acrossthe sky—like it was easy, like it was allowed, like I was someone who got to have wishes at all.
I close the browser. I don't open Notes. I don't make another list.
The urge is there—that instinct to categorize, label, file this away somewhere organized and safe. I've spent my whole life naming things so they can't surprise me.
But this isn't something that fits in a list.
I lie back down, phone abandoned on the pillow beside me. The bird is still calling outside, the moonlight still painting its silver stripes. I'm no closer to understanding what's happening to me—except that I am. This isn't about whether I'm gay or bi or whatever label applies. It's about control. About wanting, for the first time in my life, something I didn't plan for. Something that could blow up everything I've carefully built.
I want Cat.
I want her in a way that's messy and inconvenient and completely outside my experience. I want to know what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to close the space between us out there. I want to know what her lips taste like, what sounds she makes, what it feels like to be close to her with no space between us at all.
I want, and wanting is terrifying, because wanting means you have something to lose.
I finally fall asleep somewhere around 4 AM, and I dream of lavender and golden light and the word I wrote across the sky—the one I still won't say out loud.
Morning comes too soon and too bright.
I drag myself out of bed feeling like I've been run over by something large and French. My eyes are gritty, my head aches, and when I look in the mirror, I see exactly what I'd expect: a woman who spent the night having a sexuality crisis instead of sleeping.
I shower and dress in my most normal clothes—jeans, a plain white t-shirt, my hair pulled back in a ponytail that's severe even by my standards. Armor. I'm putting on armor to face a woman I wrote wishes with in a field of flowers.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Cat is in the kitchen,which is both expected and devastating. She's wearing cutoff shorts and a tank top, her hair loose around her shoulders, and she's doing something complicated with eggs that I can't follow.
"Morning," she says without looking up. "Coffee's ready."
"Thanks."
I pour myself a cup and retreat to the far end of the island, putting as much distance between us as the kitchen allows. Cat glances at me, and something flickers across her face—confusion, maybe, or hurt—but she doesn't comment.
We eat breakfast in silence. It's the loudest silence I've ever experienced.
"So," Cat says finally, setting down her fork. "About yesterday—"
"I have to make a phone call." I'm already standing, already moving toward the door. "Work stuff. It's urgent."
"Iris—"
