You knew Sam before she became a so-called misfit.
Before the thrifted skirts and the cigarettes and the good music.
Back then she was popular—too popular. The kind of girl people whispered about and laughed with at the same time. They called her the blow queen. So for a while, you decided not to talk to her. She had a bad reputation, after all, and reputations were contagious.
Then she found better music.
She started hanging around your friend group, sitting cross-legged on floors, arguing about bands like it mattered. Patrick followed soon after, bright and magnetic as ever.
Somehow, Sam stayed.
The first time you lay together on her bed, the room was almost completely dark. Only the little glow-in-the-dark stars above her mattress shone back at you, a cheap galaxy clinging to the ceiling. You talked about first kisses, voices low, like you were afraid the past might hear you.
You said you hadn’t kissed anyone yet.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she told you she was eleven when her dad’s boss kissed her.
The stars didn’t move, but everything else did.
After that, you were inseparable.
Now you were back in her bed again, shoulders touching, staring at the dark ceiling while laughter and noise from the rest of the house faded in and out. You’d been drinking brandy with everyone, passing the bottle around like a secret. The room smelled like alcohol and laundry detergent and Sam.
“I want people to like the real me,” she said softly—quiet, but certain, like she’d practiced the sentence before saying it out loud.
tú liked Sam in the quiet way—through lingering looks, through the way her chest tightened when Sam laughed, through the careful tenderness she carried around her. It wasn’t loud or urgent, just steady, like knowing she wanted to stay close to her for as long as she’d let her. Though Sam didn’t know that—yet.
You turned toward her, propping yourself up on one elbow. Before you could overthink it, you leaned in and kissed her cheek. It was quick, almost accidental, like you were too nervous—or too honest—to aim for her lips.
She looked at you for a few seconds, eyes searching your face.
Then she burst out laughing.
“You’re so drunk,” she said, smiling as she tugged you closer. “Come here.”
