Chapter 22 #2
The words I’ve buried for so long are clawing their way up, desperate to be said, but I’ve kept them down for so long, it feels like I’m fighting myself just to let them out.
“I’ve been hiding something from you, too, for a long time,” I admit.
I look at her, hoping she’ll understand. “I love you, Ale. More than I ever thought I could love someone.”
“I love you, too,” she says, cutting me off.
She smiles, a soft, familiar thing—like she thinks she knows what I mean. This feels like another “I love you” between best friends who’ve said it a thousand times before. But this isn’t that. So I keep going.
“But it’s not because you’re my best friend. It’s—It’s more than that. It’s the way you make me laugh, the way you make everything feel like it’s going to be okay. It’s the way I can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how much I try to push it away.”
She’s watching me, waiting for me to say more.
“I didn’t want to ruin what we had. I didn’t want to make things . . . awkward. But I think I already have by not telling you why my reaction to not knowing you were thinking of moving feels so intense.” My voice trembles slightly, but I fight it down, pushing forward.
“I want you to know how I feel. I’m not asking for anything.
I’m not expecting anything. But I can’t keep—” I pause, my voice catching in my throat.
“I can’t keep pretending it doesn’t hurt that it’s just about you leaving.
It’s about you leaving me, because I’m in love with you. I have been since we were teens.”
The room goes still. My words are just . . . out there now, hanging in the air with nothing to soften them.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me, her eyes wide and unreadable. Then, slowly, she walks over and sits beside me, close, but not quite touching.
“I didn’t know,” she says softly. “I really didn’t know you felt that way.”
“I know.” I force a small, broken laugh. “You weren’t supposed to.”
We sit there in the silence that follows, everything out in the open now. And for once, even with the ache in my chest, I can finally breathe.
Alejandra’s eyes stay fixed on the floor, but I can feel her thoughts pressing into the air between us. Finally, she speaks.
“Lately . . . I’ve started to realize I’ve had these feelings for a long time, too,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t see it clearly at first. I told myself it was just comfort and familiarity, us being us.
But after that conversation with my mom, after everyone kept saying they’d always seen something between us, it became clearer, and when I really thought about leaving . . .”
She pauses, voice softening.
“It felt different. Like something in me was breaking—not in the same way I broke when I thought about leaving the girls, though.” She looks at me then, eyes glassy.
“I think I’ve known you were something more than just my best friend since college, after we first kissed, but I didn’t let myself admit it because I thought I’d already crossed a line I shouldn’t have.
And when you never brought it up, I thought that maybe I was confusing things.
Then I met Mia, and I got so wrapped up in her that I couldn’t see beyond her.
But hearing you say all you just did . .
. you said everything I’ve been feeling.
” Her voice cracks slightly. “I love you, too. And not just as my best friend,” she adds with a shy laugh.
Her words knock the air right out of me, and for a second, I’m weightless.
She meets my eyes, and I can see it—how nervous she is. More than I’ve ever seen her before.
“Really?” I say, my voice hoarse and uneven.
She nods. A small, hopeful smile breaking through. “Yeah,” she says. “Really.”
Neither of us moves, and the room feels still, like the air is holding its breath right alongside us.
“Clara, I want to be with you. I don’t even want New York if it means losing you.
I was only going because I thought it would help me move on.
I’d convinced myself that I couldn’t love anyone if I stayed in Stanwood because most of my memories of Mia are here.
But I can. And I do. And I don’t want my past to ruin the future I could have with you. ”
“What about your job offer?”
“It’s a great opportunity, sure, but it’s not like they’re the only path to success for me. Would it make things easier? Yeah, maybe. But it would mean leaving you, and that’s not something I’m willing to do.”
Before I can even process the movement, her lips are on mine, urgent, a dam breaking, and it steals the breath from my lungs. For a heartbeat, I’m frozen, not out of hesitation but because nothing in the world has ever felt so unexpected and right all at once.
Then I’m kissing her back, my hands finding her waist, her face, anything to make sure this is real, that I’m not dreaming. This kiss is messy and desperate. We both don’t know how to stop now that we’ve started.
When we finally pull apart, our foreheads rest together, both of us breathless.
She looks at me—eyes dark, heavy-lidded, and filled with a hunger I’ve never seen from her before.
I feel it in every nerve, in every place her hands still linger on my skin.
But as much as I want to give in to this, to let her forget about New York and her opportunities there, the last thing I want is to be the reason she doesn’t chase her dreams—the thought claws at the edge of my brain.
I look at her, and that beautiful spark in her eyes—it deserves everything, even if it breaks me.
I take a shaky breath, my voice low. “Ale . . . I need you to know something.”
She blinks, eyebrows pulling together gently. “What is it?”
“I meant every word I said. Every single one.” I touch her cheek, memorizing the shape of her beneath my hand.
“But if you still want to go to New York . . . you have to go. I won’t be the thing that holds you back.
I couldn’t live with that. You deserve everything you’ve worked for. Even if it means . . .”
I can’t finish the sentence, so instead, I kiss her.
Softly. Desperately. Hoping it says everything I can’t. That I love her. That I want her to chase every dream she’s ever had. That I’ll be proud of her, even from a distance. That I want this even if it means being in different places.
My lungs burn as I struggle for a steady inhale, and an ache settles in my chest as I imagine life without her in it every day, without her laugh filling our home, without the perfect rituals we’ve built and the safety of her presence. The thought of missing out on all that is unbearable.
Tears stream down both our faces.
“I don’t want to,” she whispers. “I thought I did. But now . . .”
She trails off, her breath catching. Her hand finds mine, fingers trembling slightly as they intertwine. “You’ve changed everything.”
Another tear slips down my cheek, and I don’t stop it. I want to say it. I’ll go to New York. But the words catch in my throat.
New York. The words land heavily. It’s everything I’ve never imagined for myself, everything outside the life I’ve always known. The girls, my roots, my entire world is here. It’s home. But Alejandra . . . she’s home, too. Maybe even more than this place ever was.
Could I leave? I mean, yeah, I work remotely.
My company has offices in New York. Logistically, it’s not impossible.
Not even close. The thought of discovering a new city with Alejandra, of building something together in a place that’s all ours .
. . that does sound kind of amazing. But there’s something equally terrifying about leaving the one place that’s held me through every version of myself.
The streets I know like the back of my hand, the people who’ve watched me grow, the comfort of the familiar.
It feels like a lose-lose situation.
Over the past few days, the thought of moving to New York has followed me everywhere, making it impossible for me to focus on work.
I don’t know how I’m feeling or what I’m supposed to do.
Alejandra seems to think everything is fine between us—and in so many ways, it is.
But I’m still confused, a little hurt, and more than a little lost about what happens next.
She’s already imagining our life in New York, and being around her makes me want to tell her I’ll go, that I’ll drop everything to be with her, even though I have this gut instinct that New York isn’t for me.
I need some space and time to figure things out on my own, without Alejandra pushing me one way or me pushing her another.
When Alejandra walks through the front door, I’m already waiting for her. She smiles, and before I can say anything, she leans in and kisses me. I keep my hands on her shoulders but pull back enough to look at her.
“I need to talk to you,” I say. Alejandra studies my face.
“Okay,” she says slowly. “What’s going on?”
I inhale to speak, then let the breath go instead, then I finally manage, “I’ve been feeling . . . off all day. I think it’s because you not telling me about New York keeps looming over me, along with everything it means and how quickly decisions have to be made.”
She opens her mouth, probably about to explain, but I raise a hand gently.
“I’m not mad,” I rush to add. “I just . . . I need some time to think about us, about what’s next, whether that’s me moving with you or us doing long-distance.
To think about whether or not I even want to do long-distance, and I need a little space to do that.
” I reach for her hand and press it to my chest. “I love you so much, Ale, and this, us, means everything to me. But hearing you talk about New York like it’s a done deal .
. . it’s confusing me. I need some time to figure out what I want.
I don’t want to agree to go with you because I’m afraid of losing you, and I’m worried the more I hear you talk about all the things we could do there, the more I’ll agree just to agree. ”
Alejandra exhales, her shoulders sagging, and her eyes filling with tears. She nods, even though I can tell it’s hard for her.
“If that’s what you need,” she says softly, but I can hear the ache behind it.
“I think it is,” I whisper, wishing my heart didn’t hurt so much.