Sara's POV
The second date lingered in her mind like sunlight through glass — fragile, luminous, impossible to ignore.
Not because of extravagance, though Sara had gone out of her way to plan it. The rooftop café, the conservatory, the quiet corners of the bookstore… she could still picture Amy's expression at each stop. Surprised, but not uncomfortable. Curious. Almost softened. Sara had wanted to impress her, but what stayed in her chest afterward wasn't pride — it was the quiet warmth of sharing a day with someone who seemed to belong there, beside her, as if it had always been that way.
She remembered Amy's voice in the car as the evening ended, low and gentle: "Thank you, for giving me a chance."
It hadn't left her since.
The days that followed only deepened the pull.
Her mother noticed first. Sara was sure of it. Every time she lingered at her phone too long, every time she smiled without meaning to, her mother's eyes would flick toward her with that knowing look.
One evening, her mother set her book aside and asked, "So, who is she?"
Sara nearly choked. "What do you mean?"
Her mother's lips curved faintly. "I've seen that expression before. You're in love."
The words landed heavier than she expected. Sara opened her mouth, ready to deny it — but what would she even say? That she wasn't in love, just… unable to stop thinking about Amy's quiet smile, her careful words, the way even her silences felt meaningful?
Instead, she changed the subject. But the question wouldn't leave her.
That was when Sara realized how little she truly knew about Amy. Her laughter, her careful way of speaking — yes. But beyond that? Her family, her past, the things that made her who she was? Almost nothing.
So, Sara began asking. Small questions tucked into their texts. At first, she thought it might feel forced, but it never did. Amy's replies were simple, sometimes short, yet they never carried distance. If anything, their exchanges became a rhythm, natural and strangely effortless. Sara couldn't picture herself talking like that with anyone else.
The third date came before she knew it.
Amy had invited her over. Lunch at her house. It was quiet, comfortable, filled with faint scents of basil and lemon, Orrin's perfect table settings, and the kind of food Sara wouldn't forget in years. They lingered at the table long after, talking until the shadows shifted on the walls.
It was when she was leaving — Amy guiding her back toward the car, the afternoon light catching on the edges of her hair — that something inside Sara broke loose. She leaned in and kissed her. Not on the lips, not quite — close enough to make her heart stumble, close enough that Amy froze in wide-eyed shock.
The memory followed her all the way home. She couldn't stop replaying the look on Amy's face — stunned, unprepared, as if Sara had stolen her breath without warning. By the time she collapsed into bed that night, she still hadn't found words to explain what she'd done, or why it had felt so inevitable.
The next day, she told herself it was chance. Just another outing. A movie, laughter in the dark, a café after with drinks warm between their hands. Nothing more.
Until Amy asked her.
"Do you want to be my girlfriend?"
Sara's chest tightened, her pulse quick and wild. She didn't answer with words. She didn't need to.
She leaned in and kissed her — this time on the lips, soft and certain, without hesitation.
Amy's expression when she pulled back — the way joy lit her face, raw and unguarded — was enough to leave Sara dizzy. It felt like she'd been holding her breath for years and had only now exhaled.
Everything afterward blurred into a dream. Wandering the mall together, Amy buying her a bracelet she'd only paused to admire, laughter echoing against high glass ceilings, the warmth of walking shoulder to shoulder.
And when Amy drove her home that evening, Sara kissed her again before stepping out, slower this time, lingering just long enough to memorize it.
"Good night," she murmured, smiling faintly. "See you soon."
Back in her room, the hours slipped away without her noticing. She couldn't focus on anything — not schoolwork, not her messages, not even the quiet hum of the house around her. All she could see, all she could feel, was Amy's face in that moment.
She didn't remember falling asleep.
But when she woke the next morning, the first thing she thought of was the weight of Amy's hand near hers, the warmth of her lips, the look of joy she hadn't been able to put into words.
By the time she came downstairs, her mother was waiting in the living room.
"You have to tell me everything," she said, smiling before Sara could say a word.
And she did. Embarrassed, fumbling, with more hand gestures than sentences, but she told her. About the lunch, the movie, the kisses that had startled her as much as they had thrilled her, and the way Amy's happiness had made her own heart feel too full to contain.
Her mother only listened, her smile softening, her eyes warm. When Sara finally trailed off, cheeks red and voice quiet, her mother leaned closer and kissed her forehead.
"You really are in love," she said.
Sara didn't argue. She couldn't.
That night, when she finally drifted into sleep, it was with the unshakable certainty that nothing had ever felt so right.