Margaret pushes open the door to her room and guides me to the bed, where we both sit. The moment I sink into her soft floral comforter, something inside me eases—just a little. Her room is like a sanctuary. The painting of swans gliding over a sun-dappled lake hangs on the wall, their graceful white bodies drifting through water that reflects the trees surrounding them. The sunlight in the painting scatters into faint rainbows across the ripples. Her nightstand, stacked with half-read books, threatens to topple the lamp perched at an angle on top. Every corner of the room feels lived in, warm, and familiar. It comforts me more than any words ever could.

“What happened?” Margaret asks again, pulling me into a tight hug.

“My… my mama,” I manage to say through sobs, wiping my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “She said I can’t love someone of the same gender. She won’t accept it. She doesn’t believe it’s real. She thinks I’m confused—and that I’m too young to be thinking about things like this.”

Margaret pulls away just enough to see my face. “Confused? About what?”

“She thinks I’m mistaking the way I love you for real love, just because I haven’t… been in love before. She just laughed, Margaret. At the end, she just laughed and turned me away. What if I do actually love you? Because I do! Why do things have to be this way?” I cry, my voice breaking. I bury my face in my hands, as though I could disappear inside them.

“It will be okay. Florence, look at me,” Margaret whispers.

I slowly peek through my fingers. Margaret’s face is lined with concern, her brows drawn together, her lips pressed tight. She looks at me like she wants to protect me from the world.

But another voice inside me—sharp, cold, cruel—snakes into my thoughts. What if your mother is right? Maybe you’re too young. You’re only nine. Almost ten, but still. What do you know?

No. I do know. I do. That voice is wrong. I know what I feel. I know these feelings are real, not imaginary, not a phase, not some child’s game. Still, it feels like the whole world is against us. The world looks at girls like us and pretends we don’t exist. Or worse, it tries to erase us, to mold us into something else. Something quieter, more acceptable.

I can feel anger rush through me like a storm. My heart races. My fists clench at my sides.

“This isn’t right!” I burst out. “Why can’t people just accept us? Why is this what’s wrong, when all I want is to love someone who loves me back? They think we’re the ones who are twisted, but it’s really them!”

“Shhh! Keep your voice down,” Margaret pleads, glancing nervously at the door. “I don’t want my parents to hear.” She turns her head, scanning the floor, then looks at the crack under the door. I do the same. No shadows. No footsteps. We’re safe. For now.

“You’re right, though,” she finally whispers. “But… there’s nothing we can do. Not really. Just try not to think about it.”

Her words drift through the air, but I barely register them. They go in one ear and out the other. I’m not even listening anymore. I’m looking at her. Truly looking at her.

I notice the soft waves of her fiery red hair—thick like a lion’s mane—and how it falls delicately around her face. Her green eyes glimmer, wide and earnest, made brighter by the soft blush in her cheeks. She looks like a doll—porcelain and precious—but not in a fragile way. She’s beautiful. Unmistakably beautiful.

I glance down at her lips, still moving, still talking, though the words are meaningless now. All I want is to make them stop—not out of irritation, but because I want them to move differently. I want them to move with me.

I raise my hand slowly and press one finger to her lips.

She stops speaking. Her eyes widen, startled. But she doesn’t pull away. She just stares at me, and I stare back.

I lean in, slowly, until there’s only an inch between our mouths. So close that I can feel her breath, warm and steady, brushing against my skin. I can even feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat through the contact where my finger rests against her lips. Her eyes search mine—curious, wondering.

Well? they seem to ask. Are you going to do it?

I drop my gaze to her lips again, sliding my finger down from them to rest just beneath her chin. I tilt her head gently upwards so our mouths will align. Because I’m sitting upright and she’s slightly reclined, I have the advantage of height. It’s the perfect angle.

My heart pounds so loudly I think she must hear it. And then, I close my eyes, and I close the gap between us.

I kiss her.

It’s small, soft, and almost shy—as if asking, is this what you want too?

And then she answers.

Margaret kisses me back with more passion than I expected. Her lips press firmly against mine, urgent and sure, like she’s been waiting for this moment forever. Her kiss says yes. Yes to everything. Yes to us.

“Florence!” Margaret’s voice cuts in suddenly. “Snap out of it! Where’s your head gone?”

I blink. My eyes feel dry, and I realize I’ve been staring off into the distance, unmoving, not even breathing. My lungs ache as I draw in a deep breath, trying to rejoin the present moment.

“Wow,” I murmur, blinking rapidly. “I remember now. You helped me dig up this memory!” My hands fly up as I speak, animated by excitement. “That night… I came to your house crying, and I told you my mom wouldn’t accept my feelings for you. She thought I was just confused. And then—and then we kissed. That was our first kiss. Our real first kiss, after we both knew.”

Margaret gasps, her eyes lighting up. She claps a hand over her mouth in surprise, then grins. “Oh my God, I do remember that! I’d almost forgotten,” she says softly, voice full of wonder. “That night was awful at first… but it ended up being something I’ll never forget.”

There’s a long pause where neither of us speaks. I think we’re both reliving it all over again.

Then Margaret glances at the golden watch on her wrist, her brows lifting.

“Wait a minute,” she says suddenly. “We’ve been out here for ages. We should head back before my mum starts to worry—she’s probably home by now.”

She gently lifts me from her lap and sets me down on the grass. Standing up, she brushes off her dress, sweeping away any bits of grass or petals that clung to the fabric. Her hair falls forward as she straightens, and she tosses it back with a quick shake of her head.

“Let’s go,” she says, reaching for my hand again.

I take it.

We start walking back, the sun dipping lower in the sky, the crown of daisies still perched on her head like a halo.