Chapter 1: The Edge of Desire and Doubt
The record player in the corner hissed with the quiet crackle of a vinyl reaching its end. Lisa felt the soft ridge of Somi’s collarbone against her lips, the scent of her girlfriend’s perfume—something sweet and expensive—filling her head. Somi’s fingers traced idle patterns on the small of Lisa’s back, where her shirt had ridden up.
“You’re thinking too loud,” Somi murmured, her voice a warm vibration against Lisa’s temple.
“Was not.”
“You were. I can hear the gears grinding.” Somi shifted, rolling them so she was looking down at Lisa, her blonde hair a curtain around them. Her smile was playful, confident. “What’s going on in that famously weird head of yours?”
Lisa forced a grin, aiming for her usual goofy charm. “Mostly just wondering if you finished my good kimchi.”
Somi laughed, a bright sound in the dim room, and dipped her head to kiss Lisa’s neck. “Liar.” Her hands, which had been gentle, began a slow, deliberate migration. They slid up Lisa’s sides, skimming the ribbed fabric of her tank top, thumbs brushing the lower ridges of her sports bra. Lisa’s breath hitched—a tiny, involuntary gasp.
Somi felt it. Her kisses grew more insistent, one hand sliding down to tease the button of Lisa’s worn jeans. Her mouth was at Lisa’s ear. “Let me take control tonight,” she whispered, the words less a question and more a suggestion soaked in intent.
A jolt, cold and sharp, went through Lisa’s stomach. Her body stiffened, all the easy warmth freezing solid. She couldn’t help it. It was like a circuit breaker tripping somewhere behind her ribs.
Somi pulled back just enough to see her face. “Lisa?”
“I’m just… ticklish.” The laugh that came out was tinny, strained. She tried to relax her shoulders, to melt back into the cushions, but her muscles were locked.
“You are not.” Somi’s playful tone had edged into something else. A flicker of impatience. She kept her hand where it was, a warm weight against Lisa’s hipbone. “Come on. We’ve been dating for months. It’s just us.”
Just us. The words echoed. It was never just them. There was always the third thing in the room, the unspoken shape of Lisa’s own body, a territory she herself was still learning to navigate. Somi knew the clinical facts, had said it didn’t matter, but knowing and feeling were different countries. Lisa saw the way Somi looked at other couples, heard her wistful comments about romance scenes in movies. There was a script, and Lisa constantly felt like she was fumbling her lines.
“I know,” Lisa said, her voice small. She reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind Somi’s ear, a gesture she hoped was affectionate, distracting. “It’s been a long day. Dance practice was brutal. I’m just… all sweat and sore muscles.”
Somi studied her for a long moment. The amber light from the string lights caught the disappointment in her eyes before she masked it. She sighed, a soft exhale, and rolled off, settling beside Lisa on the couch. The space between them felt suddenly vast.
“Okay,” Somi said, staring at the ceiling. “Sore muscles. Okay.”
The silence pooled around them, thick and uncomfortable. The record had ended, leaving only the faint city hum from the window. Lisa hated this silence. It was louder than any argument.
“It’s not you,” Lisa started, the classic, useless phrase.
“Then what is it?” Somi turned her head, her expression open but firm. “You freeze up every time things start getting… real. I’m not asking for a wedding ring, Lisa. I’m just asking to be close to you. All of you.”
Lisa’s throat tightened. All of you. That was the problem. Which version? The one who could nail a complex dance routine, all power and grace? Or the one whose biology was a complicated, private map that didn’t match the standard model? Somi had seen the map, but Lisa wasn't sure she understood the landscape—the quiet dread of expectations, the fear of revelation turning to pity or, worse, revulsion.
“I am close,” Lisa whispered.
“Are you?” Somi pushed herself up, grabbing the whiskey bottle from the coffee table. She took a short, neat swallow straight from the bottle, not offering it to Lisa. A casual act that felt like a wall going up. “Sometimes it feels like you’re a million miles away. Like you’re dating me, but your body’s on a different planet.”
The accuracy of the strike left Lisa winded. She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. She looked at the framed photo on the brick wall—both of them in matching oversized hoodies, faces squished together, laughing. It looked easy. Why couldn’t it be easy?
“I’m trying, Som.”
“I know.” Somi’s voice softened. She set the bottle down and reached over, taking Lisa’s hand. Her fingers were warm. “I just… need you to try a little harder. This matters to me. We matter to me.”
Lisa squeezed her hand, a lump in her throat. The pressure was a tangible thing now, a weight on her sternum. Somi’s needs were valid, reasonable. So why did fulfilling them feel like being asked to perform surgery on herself without anesthetic?
Lisa’s phone buzzed violently on the coffee table, skittering on the wood. The screen lit up with a photo of Rose making a ridiculous duck face.
“It’s Rose,” Lisa said, a surge of guilty relief flooding her.
“You should get it,” Somi said, dropping her hand. The dismissal was gentle, but it was there.
Lisa grabbed the phone. “Hey.”
“Your ears burning?” Rose’s voice was a cheerful blast of static. “I just beat Jisoo’s high score on that terrible arcade game and now she’s sulking. Where are you? Sounds dead.”
“At Somi’s.”
“Ah.” Rose’s tone shifted, perceptive. A single syllable that held a universe of understanding. “You doing the awkward tango again?”
Lisa stood up, walking to the window for a semblance of privacy. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass. “Something like that.”
“You want me to come get you? I’m like a taxi service for emotionally constipated best friends.”
A real laugh, weak but genuine, broke from Lisa. “Maybe. Yeah. That’d be… yeah.”
“Twenty minutes. Stall. Tell her you have an emergency… fungal issue. Sounds plausible and she won’t ask questions.”
Lisa hung up and turned. Somi was watching her, a resigned half-smile on her face.
“Rescue ride?”
“Something like that.” Lisa shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “I’m sorry, Somi. I just… I need to sort some stuff out. In my head.”
Somi nodded, picking at the label of the whiskey bottle. “I can’t do all the sorting for you, Lisa. At some point, you have to let me in. Or…” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.
Or this ends. The unspoken words hung in the air, mingling with the scent of whiskey and dust.
“I know,” Lisa repeated, feeling useless.
The twenty minutes passed in a quiet murmur of inconsequential talk—about class, about a new song, about anything but the canyon between them. When Rose’s honk sounded from the street below, it was a sharp punctuation mark.
Lisa stood at the door, hoodie in hand. Somi stayed on the couch, silhouetted by the soft lights.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Lisa said.
“Okay.” Somi gave a little wave. “Get home safe.”
The door clicked shut. Lisa took the stairs two at a time, the sound of her footsteps echoing in the concrete stairwell like a frantic heartbeat. She burst out into the cool night air, gulping it like water.
Rose’s beat-up car idled at the curb. Lisa slid into the passenger seat, the familiar scent of Rose’s air freshener—fake pine—washing over her.
“Rough night?” Rose asked, pulling away without waiting for an answer.
Lisa stared out the window at the blur of city lights, each one a distant, solitary star. In the glass reflection, she saw her own face, the androgynous lines looking strained, tired. She thought of Somi’s hands, the warmth of her, the simple, terrifying request. Let me in.
Her phone vibrated with a text. She glanced down.
Somi: I love you. But love might not be enough if you’re always on the other side of the door.
The city lights smeared into streaks of gold and white. Lisa didn’t cry. She just watched them pass, feeling the truth of the words settle deep into her bones, a cold, heavy weight she had no idea how to carry.