Lia's Perspective:
I'd always been sure of my feelings. I was straight. Simple as that. So when Chantel started messaging me after the research camp, I never thought anything of it. She was cute and funny, and we got along well, but I wasn't looking for anything more than friendship. I knew who I was. I wasn't into girls.
Still, I found myself looking forward to our messages, even though I told myself it wasn't a big deal. We'd talk about everything—school, memes, and sometimes even deeper things. She'd help me with math. I'd help her with essays. It felt natural and easy. There was an undeniable connection between us, but I couldn't let myself read too much into it.
One night, she asked if I thought about where we stood. It caught me off guard. I told her I thought we were just friends—nothing more. But her words lingered. "Maybe I'm just overthinking it," she said.
I didn't know what to think. She was such an important part of my day now, but I still couldn't let myself question things. It had to be just a friendship. I wasn't gay, and I wasn't going to pretend that I was.
But every time we texted, something in me shifted. I couldn't help but wonder if maybe I was starting to care about her more than I realized.
But no, I was straight. Right?
Chantel's Perspective:
I stared at my phone, fingers trembling slightly as I reread her message. It had been a few days since I had asked Lia what we were, and I still couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty hanging between us. She cared about me, she said. But what did that mean? Was I just another one of her friends, or was there something more there that neither of us had dared to acknowledge?
I had to remind myself that we were just getting to know each other, and I couldn't expect everything to fall into place all at once. She wasn't ready, and I had to respect that. But deep down, I couldn't help the nagging feeling that maybe we were meant to be more than this—more than friends, at least.
Her words from earlier echoed in my mind: "You're someone I care about, Chantel. But I don't know if I can be more than that, not yet."
It was frustrating. It wasn't a no, but it also wasn't a yes. What did she mean by "not yet"? How much time did she need to figure this out? I tried to focus on the fact that it wasn't a rejection. That maybe, just maybe, we could still get there.
I leaned back against my bed, staring at the ceiling, my phone still in my hand. I couldn't remember the last time I had felt so torn. Part of me wanted just to let it go, but the other part—the part that couldn't stop thinking about her—refused to let it slip away.
But how long could I wait in this gray area, wondering where we stood? How long could I keep hoping that things would change?
The reality was that she might never feel the same way. But there was also the chance that she just needed more time. So, for now, I would hold on to the idea that we were building something worth waiting for, even if it wasn't clear yet.
I wasn't giving up, not yet. But I needed to stop questioning it every second of every day. If anything was going to happen, it had to happen naturally.
I put my phone down and sighed, feeling both lighter and heavier all at once. This was going to take time, but I wasn't ready to let go of what we had. Not yet.