31

Kamala didn't flinch when Mariah's hand slipped into hers.

They were sitting together on the couch in Kamala's brownstone—the same spot where they'd cuddled countless times, watched late-night news recaps, and fallen asleep on each other's shoulders after grading papers or sharing Chinese takeout. But now, Kamala's body was stiff, her eyes glued to the muted TV screen, where a cable news anchor mouthed words neither of them were paying attention to.

Mariah's fingers tightened around Kamala's. She didn't want to say the wrong thing. Not again.

"I know you're still mad," she said softly, eyes tracing Kamala's profile—how her jaw clenched just slightly tighter when she was holding something in.

"I'm not mad," Kamala replied quickly, too quickly. "Just...processing."

Which was Kamala-speak for: I'm still hurt, but I'm not ready to talk about it.

Mariah exhaled and leaned into her anyway. "You haven't called me 'baby' in two days."

Kamala's eyes flicked toward her, barely, before returning to the screen. "Don't act like that word fixes everything."

"I'm not," Mariah whispered. "I just... I miss you."

The silence between them swelled, heavy and unspoken.

Kamala shifted, finally turning to face her. "Do you even understand how bad that hurt me? Seeing you flirt—maybe not intentionally, maybe not out loud—but... emotionally? With her?" Her voice cracked on the last word.

Mariah swallowed the lump in her throat. "I never wanted her. I never even looked at her that way. You know that."

"No," Kamala said, her voice sharper now. "I don't know that. Because every time I closed my eyes, I kept picturing her hand on your shoulder, or the way you smiled at her. You used to smile at me like that."

"Kamala..."

"You told her things you didn't tell me," Kamala went on, words pouring out now like they'd been bottled too long. "You let her get close—too close—and I was sitting there like a damn fool thinking everything was fine."

Mariah blinked hard, trying to keep her eyes from watering. "I was scared," she admitted. "That whole week you were ignoring me... I was spiraling. I didn't know how to fix it. I thought I lost you."

Kamala stood suddenly, stepping away, one hand dragging down her face. "You didn't lose me. You pushed me away."

That cut deep.

But Mariah stood, too. "I'm trying to make it right. Every day, I've been trying. The texts, the flowers, the little notes in your office—I'm doing everything I can."

"I know," Kamala said, voice quiet now. "And I see it. I do."

Mariah approached slowly, wrapping her arms around Kamala's waist. "I love you. Nobody else. Not Michelle. Not anyone. Just you."

Kamala let herself sink into the embrace, her head resting lightly on Mariah's shoulder. But her walls were still up, even if her body was leaning in.

"I want to believe you," Kamala murmured.

"Then let me prove it to you," Mariah said.

Their lips brushed, soft at first. Not hungry like before. Not desperate. Just... searching.

When Kamala didn't pull away, Mariah kissed her again. Deeper. Apologetically.

***

Kamala hadn't looked at me all class.

She stood at the front of the lecture hall in a sleek navy pantsuit, her hair pinned half-up like always, a pair of black stilettos clicking against the tile as she paced the front of the room, pointing to graphs and projections on the screen behind her. But her eyes never once searched for mine.

Not like they used to.

She didn't pause at my desk with a playful smirk or send secret glances when students weren't looking. Today, I was just another student to her. One of fifty. And it burned.

Michelle sat two rows behind me. I didn't have to turn around to feel her stare boring into the back of my head. Her presence was loud even when she was quiet, but it didn't matter anymore. She knew where I stood. I had been clear—brutally clear—that what we had wasn't a "thing," and it never would be.

And still... things didn't feel right. Not with Kamala.

I twisted my pen between my fingers as Kamala leaned over the podium and spoke about campaign strategy, but I couldn't focus. Her voice was cold today—clipped, professional, distant.

This was punishment.

She hadn't replied to my good morning text. She hadn't reacted to the little note I'd tucked into her briefcase—I'm yours, forever. She hadn't acknowledged the flowers I left on her porch, or the voicemail I left after midnight, voice trembling as I said, Please, don't shut me out.

I thought we were okay. I thought when she held me that night—when she made love to me like I was the only girl she'd ever wanted—it meant she forgave me.

But forgiveness, apparently, didn't equal trust.

Kamala clicked her laptop shut. "That's it for today," she said, voice smooth. "Check Canvas for next week's reading."

She looked at everyone. Everyone but me.

My stomach turned as the room rustled with movement—desks scraping, people chatting, backpacks zipping. Karina nudged me with her elbow as she stood up.

"You okay?" she whispered.

I nodded, even though I wasn't. "Yeah. I just... I think she's still mad."

Karina didn't ask who "she" was. She already knew.

"Well, you messed up," she said gently, tucking a curly strand of hair behind her ear. "But you're trying. That has to count for something."

I waited until the room was almost empty before I approached her desk. Kamala was packing up, her hands moving with methodical precision—charging cord, laptop, folder. She didn't glance up.

"Can we talk?" I asked, voice low.

She didn't look at me. "I have a meeting."

"Kamala..."

She finally lifted her eyes. And the look she gave me—neutral, unreadable—almost made me take a step back.

"I told you," she said calmly, "I need space to think."

My heart thudded. "You held me two nights ago."

"I can love you and still be hurt, Mariah."

That landed hard. I swallowed.

"I've done everything I can to prove I'm sorry. I stopped talking to her. I've written you letters, showed up at your house, texted you, left voicemails—"

"I know," she said, voice soft now. "I know you're sorry. But sorry doesn't rewind time. It doesn't erase the image of you texting someone else while lying in my bed."

I flinched.

"It wasn't like that," I whispered.

She stared at me, jaw tight. Then, with a tired sigh, she slung her bag over her shoulder and walked past me—no touch, no glance, no goodbye.

And just like that, she was gone again.

⸻

That night

I sat on my bedroom floor surrounded by empty candy wrappers and tissues. My phone buzzed. Again. I didn't want to look. But I did anyway.

Karina: "You okay?"

I typed and deleted about four replies before landing on:Me: "No."

Then I called her.

"Damn," she answered immediately. "You sound like hell."

I sniffed. "She won't talk to me."

"Give her time, Riah."

"It's been time. It's been space. I feel like I'm doing everything and none of it matters."

"You messed up, but you're not the only one in the relationship. If she loves you, she'll find her way back."

I bit my lip.

"What if she doesn't?" I asked.

There was a long pause. Then, softly: "Then she wasn't yours to begin with."

⸻

Three Days Later

A knock on my dorm door made me jump. I wasn't expecting anyone.

I opened it cautiously, heart thumping, hair a mess, hoodie too big on me.

And there she was.

Kamala.

Her eyes were tired. Her lips parted like she had a hundred words trapped in her mouth. She held something in her hand—crumpled notebook paper, folded into a square.

"I read your note," she said quietly.

I blinked.

"I missed you," she added.

And suddenly, I couldn't breathe.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered.

"I know."

We didn't speak for a moment.

Then I stepped back, and she came in.

She dropped her bag on the floor. I closed the door behind her.

And when our bodies met again, it wasn't about lust. It was about forgiveness. About pain. About two people trying to rebuild something broken with trembling hands and tearstained hearts.

I didn't plan to sleep with her that night.

But when I whispered, Let me show you how sorry I am, she didn't stop me.

______

AHAHAHAHH CLIFFHANGER.