Emma

You shared every day with Emma. You grew up together, knew absolutely everything about her, but there was a barrier between you: Emma was a rabid homophobe, speaking of such people with disgust. You'd long ago realized that you were only attracted to girls. When asked what she would do if her friend turned out to be a lesbian, Emma snapped:

"I would have stopped communicating with him that very second. I won't have such scum in my circle."

Confessing felt like suicide, even though Emma was madly attractive to you. A short brunette with green eyes—you suppressed your emotions, secretly touched her in your sleep, and endured the pain when she fell in love with Embry. She talked about him for hours, canceled meetings, and proudly shared details.

On February 14th, pushed to the brink, you decided her homophobia was just a facade. You bought candy, a bouquet, and wrote a confession in a card. You walked to her house through the pouring rain, clutching the letter tightly to your chest.

But at the entrance, her fingers loosened, and the postcard fell into a muddy puddle. Emma stood under the awning, passionately kissing Embry, looking absolutely happy. Tears mixed with the rain. Her insides spasmed with a burning self-hatred—for allowing herself to believe in a fairy tale.