Riley knew how to disappear.
It wasn't magic—not the vanishing kind. It was a city survival skill. The kind you pick up when the walls around you echo with judgment and everyone's too busy pretending to be perfect to say what they really feel.
She grew up in the heart of the city. Not the glamorous parts—the ones on postcards—but the in-between places. Glass towers surrounded by shadows. Apartments stacked like secrets. People moving fast, never looking long enough to ask real questions.
Her family wasn't traditional, but they were image-obsessed. Her father ran a chain of luxury boutiques. Her mother managed events for politicians. They wore expensive smiles and practiced silence like a religion.
So when Riley, at sixteen, told her mother she liked a girl, she didn't expect fireworks. But the silence that followed was louder than anything she'd imagined.
Her mom had stared for a long moment and then said only four words:
"That's not who you are."
Riley didn't argue. She just nodded, went to her room, and closed the door. And something inside her shut with it.
—
By the time she graduated, she knew she couldn't stay. The city loved ambition, not truth. She wanted out—not just of her house, but of the masks. The pretending.
The open university was her escape route. Far enough to feel new, open enough to breathe. But freedom didn't feel the way she thought it would. It wasn't loud or rebellious—it was quiet. Scary. Raw.
She kept her edge—the sarcasm, the dry humor, the permanent look of "don't mess with me." But underneath, Riley was rebuilding.
—
People talked about her, she knew that. Said she was intimidating. Cold. Gay, probably. Riley never corrected them. She didn't owe anyone softness.
But then came Emily.
Not loud, not bold. Just there. A steady presence that didn't demand anything from her. And for reasons she couldn't fully explain, Riley found herself showing up. Talking more. Guarding a little less.
Emily never asked about Riley's past—not directly. But she listened in a way that made Riley want to tell her anyway.
—
One afternoon, they sat by the edge of the campus lawn, watching other students rehearse for Cultural Week.
"You ever get homesick?" Emily asked suddenly.
Riley paused. "Not for the place."
Emily looked over. "For what, then?"
Riley hesitated, then shrugged. "For the version of me that didn't have to explain herself all the time."
Emily nodded like she understood. And maybe she did.
The sun dipped low behind the university buildings, casting long shadows.
Riley picked at the hem of her sleeve. "You ever feel like you're constantly waiting for people to stop accepting you?"
Emily smiled sadly. "Sometimes I feel like I was never accepted to begin with."
And there it was again—that quiet, invisible thread between them. Something unspoken. Something real.
Riley didn't say anything more. But she reached over, gently bumped her shoulder against Emily's.
It was small. But it meant everything.
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