Being a girl—the script society hands us—is like wearing a costume stitched from expectations. But when you’re a tomboy, it’s different. You’re the girl who climbs trees, scrapes her knees, and laughs with the boys. The world tilts its head, puzzled.

I, too, grew up in that liminal space—more comfortable in sneakers than heels, more at home in mud than makeup. My parents, bless their well-intentioned hearts, pleaded for a transformation. “Behave like a girl,” they urged.

And then there was Ora—a whirlwind of lace and laughter. She taught me the art of femininity—the delicate brushstrokes that turned my canvas from rough to rosy. I wore skirts, painted my nails, and learned to flutter my lashes. But beneath the gloss, my heart remained unchanged.

For whether you’re a girl or a tomboy, the fluttering heart knows no gender. It flits like a butterfly, seeking connection, defying labels. It whispers secrets in moonlight and dances to its own rhythm.

Weekends with Kai—the silent symphony of two souls sharing space. We perched on the same couch, corners our refuge. Words tiptoed between us like shy guests at a party.

“Do you want some orange juice?” I’d ask.

“No,” he’d reply.

Christopher Nolan movies became our common ground—a bridge across our quiet chasm. “I like his work,” I ventured.

“I do,” he’d say.

And that was it—the weekend conversation, a minimalist masterpiece. Until Monday dawned, and we resumed our separate orbits.

But then came the ache—the need to unravel our contract, to confess to Ora. She’d understand, I thought. So, I spilled my secrets—the gold-digger accusation, my desperate pursuit of art at The Royal College of Arts.

Ora’s reaction was a storm: “You made a wrong choice, Sia. Kai thinks—”

“I don’t care what he thinks,” I interrupted. “London awaits, and memories fade. I’m never coming back.”

Ora’s eyes held disappointment, but I clung to my resolve. One day, she’d see—the artist’s hunger, the fire that consumed me.

Later, I returned home, expecting solitude. Instead, Kai’s mom stood there—an unexpected arrival. Her touch grazed my hair, and I wondered why she’d come.

“How are you, my daughter?” she asked, her voice gentle.

Oh, she was here with luggage. My heart clenched. Kai’s mom—the keeper of secrets, the witness to our silent weekends. What did she know? What did she see?