Confessions

Her voice is soft on the other end of the line, but I can feel the tension in it like the thin string of a cracked violin. "Okay," she says, almost in a whisper. "Tell me everything."

So I do.

I tell her everything.

From the tour a year ago, when Stefani and I would sneak away after rehearsals. Quiet, breathless nights lit by streetlights and hotel bedside lamps. Her fingers on my ribs, the smell of hairspray and sweat, our laughter muffled by thin walls. I tell her about the way Stefani would look at me in the dark—like I was the only thing she ever wanted but could never touch in the daylight.

"I was broken back then," I say. "When I met you, Elena, I was... unraveling. You came along and just—loved me. Without asking me to explain my bruises or my mess. You made me feel like I was enough, even when I couldn't see it."

She says nothing. Just breathing.

And then I confess what I've buried for too long. "The night after you asked to be my girlfriend, Stefani and I spent one last night together. It was wrong. I know it. I knew it then too. But I thought it would be a closing chapter. That it would finally end things."

More silence. A shift in her breathing.

"We didn't speak after that. For a whole year. I focused on you—on us. I thought I had let it go. I wanted to believe I had."

I'm pacing now. My heart thudding in my throat.

"When she invited me to her engagement party, I thought it meant we'd both moved on. That maybe we could be friends again. I was stupid."

My voice trembles. "We started hanging out again when you left for that trip. Just to rehearse. Work on music for Wicked, go to class. It wasn't supposed to mean anything. But every night... it was like walking a tightrope over fire. The tension was unbearable. Still, nothing happened. I swear."

I can hear her crying now, quietly.

"And then," I continue, voice cracking, "after opening night, at the after party... I was avoiding her. I was trying to do the right thing. But she found me. In the bathroom. I looked at her and I saw it. How much she was hurting. How much I hurt her. And I kissed her."

A shaky breath. "She kissed me back."

I pause, letting that sit in the air between us like a wound neither of us can look at directly.

"I thought about you. The whole time. You were in the other room and I thought about you. But I didn't stop."

The tears in her voice turn into sobs. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I can't lie to you anymore," I say. "Because you deserve to know the truth. I spent last weekend with her. At a cabin. We... I told her how I felt. She did the same. And we spent the night together. It wasn't just a kiss."

It takes her a full minute to respond. When she does, it's with the voice of someone unraveling. "Do you love her?"

"Yes," I whisper.

"And me?"

"Yes." I breathe through the burn in my chest. "I love you both. But it's different. The way I love her is fire and history and wounds that never healed. The way I love you is safety. Hope. Like you're the only person who ever saw who I was under the wreckage."

There's silence again. She's crying, and I hate myself more than I ever thought possible.

"Say something," I plead. "Please."

She tries. But all she can manage is, "I don't know what to say."

"I'm sorry," I say, but it feels hollow. Pointless. "I know that doesn't matter. I know it doesn't fix anything. I just... I'm so fucking sorry, Elena."

She inhales sharply, trembling. "I always knew there was more. I always knew there was something between you two."

I close my eyes. "You showed me how to love again. You saved me."

"Then why wasn't I enough?" she whispers.

"You were. You are," I say. "This isn't about enough. It's not your fault. It's mine. All of it is mine."

She goes quiet again. I can tell she's trying to hold herself together.

I stay on the line, waiting. Desperate. Hollow.

And then, finally, she says: "I need time."

I nod, though she can't see. "Okay."

"I don't know if I can forgive this," she says. "But I need time to figure that out."

"I'll wait," I say. "I'll wait as long as it takes."

But she hangs up before I can say anything else. And the silence that follows is the loudest thing I've ever heard.

I scrub myself raw in the shower—skin red, eyes stinging. No matter how hard I clean, nothing comes off. Not the guilt. Not the memory. Not the ache in my chest that's hollowed me out. When I step out, my towel barely clings to me as I move on instinct. I don't dry my hair. I don't pick out an outfit. I just throw on what's close, pull on boots, and leave.

I don't text. I don't call. I just go to her.

Stefani doesn't expect me. I know that the moment she opens the door, her face pale and tired. She's folded on the couch like something someone once loved and forgot how to care for. Her hair's tied up, barely. Her sweatshirt looks like it's swallowing her whole.

She doesn't say anything when I walk in. Just stares.

I sit beside her, careful not to touch her yet. I'm not sure I deserve to.

"I'm sorry," I start. "I should've said it better this morning. I should've... I don't know. I'm a mess. But I miss you."

She turns her head slightly. "Could've fooled me."

My throat burns. "Stefani—"

"What about Kira?"

I meet her eyes. "We kissed. That's all. It wasn't anything serious."

She scoffs—a sound that's not even a laugh. "Damn. Think you can handle three girls now?"

"I don't want that." I shake my head. "I told Elena."

That stops her cold. Her brows raise slightly. "You told her?"

"Everything."

Stefani sits up straighter, something shifting in her expression. "And?"

"She needs time," I say. "She doesn't know what she wants to do. But I couldn't lie to her. I won't lie to you either."

Silence lingers, heavy and humid. I hate it. But I let it stretch.

"I love you," I tell her, voice small. "I love Elena too. I know it's fucked up. I know that's not fair. But I can't keep lying to you or to myself."

Her jaw tightens. "Do you love me?"

I nod. "Yes."

She doesn't say it back. But she doesn't have to. Her silence isn't cold—it's loaded. Full of everything she can't give voice to. That's the thing with us. The things left unsaid always said more than our mouths ever could.

"Do you love Taylor?" I ask.

She looks away, then back. "I do."

My chest caves a little. I nod again. "It's possible to love two people."

"You keep saying that like it's some kind of excuse."

"It's not an excuse," I say. "It's just the truth."

"I don't know what to do with your truth," she says. "Because you say you chose me, but Lena... you didn't. You couldn't even go a week without spiraling. You're reckless and impulsive and so fucking selfish."

"I know."

"And you keep choosing you—but in all the wrong ways."

I don't respond. I just look at her. My eyes burn again.

"I love you," I say once more, quieter this time. "Even when I shouldn't."

She leans her head back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, blinking quickly.

"That's not always enough," she murmurs. "Not when you keep breaking things just to see who stays behind to help you clean up."

And the worst part is?

She's right.

The silence between us feels louder than anything either of us has said. It rings in my ears, cruel and clear. I shift slightly on the couch, watching her as she stares up at the ceiling like it might give her the answers neither of us can seem to find.

"I never wanted to break anything," I say, barely above a whisper.

"But you did," she replies, steady. "And you keep doing it. You break things before you even know if they're fragile."

I swallow. "I was scared."

"Of what?"

"Of being known. Of being held too tightly. Of wanting something too much and watching it slip through my fingers anyway."

She turns to look at me now, really look. Her eyes are glassy but sharp. "And what do you want now?"

I pause. "You."

A beat. Then, quieter: "Still."

Her lip trembles, and she looks away fast, like the confession hurt more than she expected it to. "I don't know if I can survive being loved by you."

My heart cracks clean in half. "Please don't say that."

"I have to," she says, not cruelly, but like it's the only way she knows how to survive me. "Because if I don't, I'll let myself believe that this can work the way it is, and it can't. You need to figure out who you are without dragging people behind you like broken kites."

I nod, slowly, not trusting myself to speak.

"And I need to figure out what I'm doing with someone I'm supposed to marry when my body still lights up when you walk into a room."

There it is. The truth, raw and pulsing.

Neither of us says anything for a long time. I can hear her breathing, soft and uneven.

Eventually, she stands. Not all the way—just enough to move closer. She takes my face in her hands. Her thumbs brush just under my eyes, where I didn't realize tears had started to fall. She leans in, but doesn't kiss me. Just rests her forehead against mine.

"I love you," she breathes. "But I can't be the one holding the pieces together anymore."

"I don't want you to be," I whisper.

"Then don't make me," she says, and for once, I hear the line she's drawing. Not out of anger. But out of love—for herself.

She steps into me and wraps her arms around me. I hold her back, hard, like I could memorize her body in seconds. We stay like that. Holding. Crying, quietly. Neither of us speaking.

She pulls back just enough to kiss my cheek. My jaw. "Thank you," she says.

"For what?" My voice cracks.

"For loving me."

She walks to the door. Her hand on the handle, she turns. "Take care of yourself, Lena."

And then she's gone.

I don't follow. I don't call out. I sink to the floor, my arms still warm from where she held me. My face wet. My heart wide open.

I let her go.