It was a long walk home, Violet’s heart palpitating against her chest as though at a battle with itself.

There was something strangely alluring about Emilie, her captivating blue hair, the delicate shine of her piercings, and the confidence in which she held herself. I wish I had that type of confidence.

Her fists were clenching and unclenching, knuckles turning white like she was trying to find something to clasp. Her strides where long, calves straining with each step as she hurried back through the city and two her fourth-floor apartment.

At that moment, however, an unusual sight caught her eye. A blue Toyota Camry was parked neatly on the side street; it’s wheels slightly turned to the left and a small crack in the left mirror.

It wasn’t the way the car shined brightly that made her frown, nor the way it was blocking a portion of the next driveway. Instead, it was the familiar numberplate that made her want to turn around and never return: M4R13

Her grandmother.

Suddenly she was convinced that the universe read her mind. She had needed some sort of emotional distraction, and so she got one. What marked the question was how they got it. It wasn’t

Despite living miles away from her family and the city she grew up, and knowing virtually nothing about her grandparents other than some of their questionable opinions, they still had the audacity to come to her apartment unannounced and let themselves in the block. I knew I never should have given them that key.

Again – she loved her grandparents. When she was younger, they would bake with her, laugh with her, tell jokes and go shopping with her.

She isn’t exactly sure what changed, and why they stopped visiting and what caused them to become so harsh, but she had learnt long ago that there wasn’t anything she could do to change it.

After taking the elevator to the fourth floor, and making her way to her own apartment – 406 – she took a deep breath a cautiously opened the door.

There, sitting in her half-furnished living room, sipping on a steaming cup of tea, were her grandparents and her mother.

“Mum!” She exclaimed excitedly, rushing over and wrapping her in her arms. It was warm and familiar, the floral scent of her mother blanketing her in a bubble of safety and sanctuary, reminding her that there would always be someone looking out for her. “I missed you.” Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face into her mother’s neck.

“I missed you too. Dad wanted to come but work called in last night.”

“That’s a shame. I’ll have to facetime him sometime soon.”

“I think he would like that,” mum smiled gently, pulling back and tucking a loose strand of hair behind Violet’s ear. “How are you doing, my darling?”

Violet sighed dramatically, air puffing out from her mouth and nose as she finally let out the tension built at Elderflower Café. “It’s been interesting.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” The smile never left her mouth, but her eyes looked sad with some sort of motherly concern.

Marie – Violet’s grandmother – chose that moment to step in. “I heard you broke up with that boyfriend of yours.” Her voice wasn’t harsh, or even particularly judgemental, but it still held a gruff texture that made her want to squirm uncomfortably.

“Yeah,” Violet sighed. She stretched out on the couch, throwing her feet on the coffee table despite the unamused look from her grandfather. After all, this wasn’t their house.

Her mum sat down beside her, hugging her into her shoulder and pressing a soft peck to her hairline. “How are you doing?”

“Better now, I think.”

“What happened?” Frank – Violet’s grandfather – asked. “You haven’t spoken about it, poppit.”

The use of her childhood nickname made her heart swell appreciatively, a small reminder that despite their clashing views and the growing gap between their once loving relationship, her grandparents still cared for her.

“Well… he broke up with me.”

“Why?” Marie’s slightly harsher tone stepped in.

“I—” you don’t need to pretend to be someone you’re not… you treat me the same as you treat any of your other friends… “I think…” Violet trailed off, her eyes glazed in thought. “I’m not sure,” she mumbled, the lie coiling like a small snake in her gut.

“Did you not ask him?”

“Well I—” She looked at her feet, watching as her left knee jumped uncomfortably. “I guess not.”

Mum ran a hand through her hair, brushing it out of her face lovingly. “It’s important to talk about these things, sweetheart.”

“I know,” she murmured.

“You should have asked before he left you,” Marie grumbled.

Except I did ask and we spoke about it and he thinks I’m going through some sort of identity crisis and that I don’t actually love him and it’s no different to the way I would care for one of my friends, and I just met a girl and she’s really pretty and cool and it made my stomach flutter and now I don’t know who I am and what’s going on and why I feel so okay about this yet so terrified and betrayed at the same time. “Yeah.” But you just wouldn’t understand because you hate anything even remotely queer, and even though I know you want the best for me I can’t talk to you about it because you would probably think I was being brainwashed or something and claim that I’m lying to myself or whatever. “I don’t really care, though.”

Mum looked concerned, her eyebrows furrowing. “Really?” Her voice was sceptical. Not in the way where she thought she was lying, more in the way that she thought Violet was trying to make myself believe a fact simply for the purpose of some type of peace.

Violet arranged her features into something not quite reminiscent of happiness: a feeble attempt to ease her worries. “Really,” she said defiantly. “It didn’t really end on bad terms or anything, so I think I’m okay.”

“That’s good to hear, poppit,” Frank smiled brightly, in that grandfatherly way.

“You’ll find yourself another boy soon enough,” Marie added.

Boy.

The word didn’t spark any excitement in Violet. No butterflies, no petal-like blush, no joyful anticipation of what the word could mean to her.

That night, Violet laid awake on her bedsheets, her eyes tracing circles across the abysmal ceiling.

There was something about the darkness that was so terrifyingly beautiful, the moon casting long shadows across her room that seemed to both frighten and attack.

She knew it was strange, this attraction she felt towards Emilie.

There was no strange build-up or moment of realisation. There wasn’t months of pining before she realised what her heart was truly trying to say.

Maybe it was the fact that her and Oliver had gotten together so young, in that pivotal period between teenhood and adulthood, that had made her shun away any other feelings her soul might have been gently fostering.

Or perhaps, she was simply ready for something knew.

She didn’t want to do that thing you always see in movies: late nights stuck questioning everything you thought you knew, placing your trust multitude of un-trustable websites to tell you who you are, hours of research and tears and clawing at some God to give you answers.

Violet has always been a very down-to-Earth person. A go-with-the-flow, see-where-the-day-will-take me sort of girl. She felt perfectly content going for aimless strolls, floating silently in overcrowded swimming pools, and ditching any daily planner her parents may have bought.

It was the best way to live, in her opinion, so why should this situation be any different?

She didn’t feel the need to have some sort of crisis, when this wasn’t something she could control anyways. She wished she could just feel and see where fate took her.

But there where her grandparents, and society, and all the stereotypes and expectations that she cannot fulfill.

And of course, there was no way to tell if Emilie liked girls.

Without Marie’s judging glare and Frank’s curious face, and without the looming presence of a maybe-crush painting her face with blush and palms with sweat, she finally had space to reflect on the day’s events.

She didn’t feel alone, per say. She just felt isolated. The weight of the unknown pressed down on her shoulders, blended with some sort of fluttering in her stomach. It was a concoction of good and bad feelings, something she hadn’t quite experienced before.

Earlier that afternoon, when grandparents and mother where just sitting having a normal conversation, it was as though she was watching them through a thick sheet of glass. They were talking about the usual things, completely unaware that her entire universe had just shifted 180 degrees to the left.

The urge to speak up was like a physical ache in her throat, yet the words refused to form around her clumsy tongue. After all, how could she explain this to someone else when she could barely even explain it to herself.

She wasn’t one-hundred-percent sure of anything yet.

Maybe it was the longing need for answers, tugging in her gut. Maybe it was about needing someone to talk to. Maybe it was just that she was feeling too much and had no way to get it out.

Dear Diary.
My grandparents and mum came over to visit today
and they kept asking me about Oliver. I wasn’t completely
honest about the breakup, but I couldn’t let my grandparents
know what he said. I kind of wanted to tell mum what I’ve been thinking
recently because she’d be supportive, and I think grandpa has always
been slightly more accepting than grandma, but I don’t know. I
don’t think I mind, though.

Violet found that writing in her diary gave her clarity. Some sort of way to keep record of everything she’d been feeling. Right now, she wasn’t sure what to think. All she knew was that she may not be the person she’d spent her entire life acting as.

The calm realisation Violet had felt didn’t need to fade away, as though she was facing the aftermath of some tsunami. Instead, a heavy silence sat stagnant in her mind, leaving behind a trail of something equally as scary as exciting.