Chapter Text
The noise was a disruption in the quiet wing. Ava paused her music, pulling her headphones down. She knew the routine. New student.
She opened her door. The commotion was directly opposite. A girl her age stood stiffly beside an open doorway. Two men with the bearing of stone pillars manoeuvred a sleek trunk inside. A petite woman dressed impeccably supervised.
She crossed the hall. “Hey. I’m Ava Silva. I live just across.” She thumbed back at her own door.
The girl turned. Her gaze was assessing, devoid of welcome. “Beatrice. As you can see, I am just moving in.”
“Awesome. You speak English.”
“It is a common language.”, Beatrice replied, her accent clearly British.
“Tell that to the girls down the hall. They rip on my accented Spanish all day. It’s brutal.”
A flicker in Beatrice’s dark eyes. Not quite humour. “Well…”, she contemplated for a second, “I shall have to make fun of your American-English accent, then.”
“Beatrice!”, the older woman interjected, “Comport yourself.”
But Ava’s grin only widened. She liked the challenge. “Looking forward to it.”
She retreated to her room, shutting the door behind her. She didn’t move from it for a moment. The polished silence from across the hall felt heavier than the noise had.
Interesting. Very interesting.
*
The school -a Catholic school run by the Order of the Cruciform Sword- was a converted palace, all cold marble and echoing cloisters. Nuns in black habits glided through the halls like silent, watchful shadows. Their rosary beads clicked a soft, constant rhythm of discipline.
For three days, the girl across the hall was a ghost. A very quiet, very present ghost.
Ava saw her in History of European Art, and in Advanced French. Beatrice didn’t slouch. She didn’t fidget. She sat with a spine so straight, it seemed to reject the very concept of chairs. She answered questions with terrifying accuracy, in multiple languages. With her sixteen years, she already was a statue of competence.
Everyone here was rich. It was that kind of place. But Beatrice’s wealth felt different. It wasn’t in loud logos or careless spending. It was in the cut of her uniform blazer, the worn, but expensive leather of her satchel, the way she held her Montblanc fountain pen. It was an ancient, assured kind of money. It whispered that she was better. Not louder, just better.
And Ava, perpetually in trouble for slouching and talking back, was fascinated.
The information came in whispers and notices on the bulletin board. Beatrice was in the fencing club. Of course. She was on the equestrian team. Naturally. She took private lessons in classical piano. It was all the fancy shit, the kind of training that built an impregnable person.
Ava watched her walk to the stables one afternoon, stride long and purposeful, unlike the giggling clusters of other girls. She didn’t seem lonely. She seemed complete. A finished thing in a world of drafts.
Ava found herself straightening her own shoulders, when Beatrice passed in the hall. She didn’t know why. She just wanted to see, if she could hold that much stillness, even for a second. (She couldn’t.)
*
It was a Tuesday. Ava cornered Beatrice by her locker after Latin.
“Hey. A few of us are sneaking out to the village on Friday. Yas, Cam, Lilith. Getting drunk. You in?”
Beatrice slowly closed her locker. She didn’t look at Ava. “Why would you ask me? Do I look like the sort who does that?”
Ava’s eyes went wide, her mouth opening in immediate, genuine offence. “I just thought-”
“God…”, Beatrice cut in, a short, sharp sound escaping her. A snort. “You’re entirely too easy to rile up.”
Ava blinked, the offence melting into realisation. She’d been played.
“Fine.”, Beatrice said curtly, finally turning to face her. Her expression was cool, considering. “I wouldn’t mind getting away from here for a while.”
Ava’s smile returned, triumphant. “Cool. It’ll be fun. Some guys from the town usually meet us. My boyfriend, JC, he gets the booze.”
Beatrice’s eyebrow lifted. Just a fraction. “You entertain a boyfriend, while incarcerated in a Catholic boarding school?”
The challenge was back in Ava’s gaze. “What, you don’t have one waiting for you back home? Can’t imagine it. You’re pretty.” Ava was not sure, why she had said that.
For a second, nothing moved on Beatrice’s face. Then, she took a single, deliberate step forward. Into Ava’s space. Ava, stunned, held her ground, but her breath hitched.
Beatrice’s voice dropped, “I do not discuss my private life with people I barely know.”
The intensity was a physical thing. Ava rallied, leaning in a little herself, refusing to back down. “We won’t be barely knowing each other by the end of the night. Friends by dawn. You’ll see. On Friday.”
Beatrice’s eyes did something then. They dropped, a slow, deliberate scan from Ava’s face down her body and back up. It felt less like appreciation and more like an appraisal. A judgment of material and construction. When her gaze locked back with Ava’s, it was unreadable.
“Look forward to it, Ava Silva.”
She turned and walked away, her steps precise on the marble floor. Ava watched her go, a strange, warm thrill buzzing under her skin.
*
The villa was sprawling. Music thumped from a distant room. Beatrice found herself on a vast leather sofa, a drink she hadn’t touched in her hand, holding court without trying.
Lilith and Yasmine were interrogating her with a blunt curiosity the nuns would have condemned.
“So, London? What do your parents do?”, Lilith prompted.
“My mother is a diplomat.”, Beatrice said, her voice clear over the bass. “My father is her personal secretary.”
Yasmine’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s actually refreshing. Power couple.”
“It was... unusual.”, Beatrice conceded. “Having both parents as diplomatic personnel. The protocol followed you home.”
“And… do you also have a Diplomatic passport?”, Lilith asked, a glint of competitive recognition in her eye.
Beatrice gave a single, slight nod. “Yes.”
A shared, unspoken understanding passed between them: a recognition of a specific kind of privilege, one measured in border crossings and embassy receptions.
Camila, curled in an armchair, chimed in softly. “My mother was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Physics. Twice. But it’s a secret. She says the attention is vulgar.”
Lilith waved a dismissive hand. “My parents are just rich. Probably fraud. Definitely something offshore and morally flexible.” She said it with such dry disdain that everyone, even Beatrice, let out a short laugh.
Yasmine sighed. “Oil. My family is in oil. The boring, evil kind of money.”
“See?”, Ava’s voice cut through from where she leaned against the doorway, a bottle dangling from her fingers. “What a bunch of rich kids.” Her grin was wide, but her eyes skipped over the group. “My parents are just normal people rich. Not the fraud or ‘destroying the planet’ kind.”
The others laughed, but Beatrice watched Ava’s face. The smile didn’t quite settle. There was a shield in her casual tone. Beatrice noted it, filed it away, and did not press.
Later, the crowd had thinned and blurred. Beatrice found Ava on a balcony, looking out at the dark shapes of cypress trees.
“The girls are lovely.”, Beatrice stated, joining her at the railing. She waited for a beat. “Why were you shipped across an ocean?”
Ava took a swig from her bottle. The question obviously not expected. “My parents were... in the process of a spectacularly bad divorce. Still are. They thought it would be ‘less ugly’, if I wasn’t there to see the dishes flying. So they picked a random, expensive school in Europe. Not that special.” She shrugged, a gesture meant to convey it meant nothing.
Beatrice stayed silent, letting the silence encourage more.
Ava glanced at her, then leaned in conspiratorially. “By the way…”, she whispered, her smile turning sharp. “I’m half Canadian. If you’re going to insult me, you have to properly insult me. None of that ‘American’ laziness.”
A genuine, surprised delight sparked in Beatrice’s chest. Her lips curved into a real smile. “Canadian.”, she repeated, “You’re Commonwealth. I can’t make fun of you now. The rules are very clear.”
Ava’s laugh was bright in the quiet dark. “That- yes! Damn right.”
Beatrice watched Ava’s laugh fade into the night. The silence felt easier now. Comfortable.
“Your boyfriend seems… nice.”, Beatrice offered, because it was something to say.
Ava’s eyebrows shot up. A playful, knowing look. “He’s really hot, right? And his little Spanish accent just does something for me.”
Beatrice made a noncommittal face, a slight shrug. She had registered his conventional attractiveness the way one might note a well-designed piece of furniture. It held no particular interest.
“I think…”, Ava leaned her elbows on the railing, her voice dropping to a confidential tone. “I think I’m going to sleep with him tonight.”
Beatrice stiffened. The shift was too abrupt, too intimate. “Okay. Thanks for sharing?”
“No, I mean…”, Ava turned to her, her bravado cracking to reveal a layer of genuine nerves. “For the first time. I’ve never…”
“Oh.” The syllable left Beatrice’s lips softly. Understanding settled, followed by an unexpected sense of responsibility. Her gaze drifted back through the glass doors. She found JC in the crowd, laughing too loudly, his arm slung around another boy’s neck. She assessed him with a cold, clinical eye. Was he careful? Was he kind? The evidence was inconclusive.
She turned back. Ava was watching her, waiting for something. A verdict, maybe.
“Did you ever…?”, Ava asked, the question tentative.
A sharp, quiet laugh escaped Beatrice. “You want to know a lot of personal details, Ava Silva.”
Ava’s eyes dropped to Beatrice’s mouth, then back up. A slow, curious smile spread. “I like the way you always say my full name.”
The words, the look, disarmed something in Beatrice’s usual defences. The whole night, the offer to join Ava’s close circle- it all conspired against her caution.
“Back in London…”, Beatrice heard herself say, the words precise and deliberate. “I had a… girlfriend. I’m into… girls.”
She watched the reaction unfold on Ava’s face. A flicker of shock, then a dawning, delighted astonishment. Beatrice couldn’t tell if it was the content of the revelation or the simple fact of the revelation itself that caused it.
“We were together for over a year.”, Beatrice continued, and then stopped. Abruptly. The sentence felt unfinished. Why had she said that? And to a near stranger? A familiar tension snapped back into her shoulders.
She fixed Ava with a look that was both a warning and a plea.
“I won’t tell anyone.”, Ava said quickly, her voice sincere.
“It isn’t a secret.”, Beatrice corrected, her tone regaining its usual control. “It is simply not something I share with just anyone.”
Ava nodded, the motion solemn. The understanding between them deepened, unspoken. Ava herself had always known she’d fancied both genders. Revealing that now felt like she would take away from Beatrice’s confession, so she didn’t.
They stood in the quiet for a long moment, the party’s pulse a distant throb.
Then Ava nudged Beatrice’s shoulder with her own, a gentle, playful bump. “See?”, she whispered, triumph soft in her voice. “We are becoming friends.”
Beatrice didn’t answer. She didn’t nudge back. But she didn’t move away from the point of contact, either. She just stared out at the dark, a small, private war of confusion and warmth battling behind her calm eyes.
*
Weeks passed.
Ava realised a pattern: Beatrice never made the first move. Ava was the one who slid into the empty seat next to her at lunch. Ava had been the one to invite her to the party. Beatrice was always polite, always present, but never seeking. It was like befriending a very elegant statue.
Curiosity finally drove Ava to the gymnasium on a Thursday afternoon. A fencing match. Or bout, or whatever they called it.
Mary, a formidable senior, was losing. Badly. The figure in white opposite her was a blur of controlled, lethal grace. A lunge, a parry, a strike. The electronic buzzer sounded. Point. Again.
The final touch was a thing of brutal elegance. Mary pulled off her mask, her face not angry, but split by a wide, delighted grin. She clapped her opponent on the shoulder. The other fencer removed her own mask.
Beatrice. Hair damp at her temples, expression utterly serene. She gave Mary a respectful nod, then turned and walked away, her posture perfect even in retreat. Ava was mesmerised.
She found the new girl in the empty changing area. Beatrice had her back to the door, pulling her sweat-damp undershirt over her head. She stood in her sports bra and briefs, reaching for her uniform blouse.
Ava froze in the doorway, startled. Her eyes caught on the defined muscles of Beatrice’s back, the strong line of her shoulders. “You were... wow. I’ve never seen anyone beat Mary.”
Beatrice didn’t jump. She simply finished buttoning her blouse, before turning. “She’s an excellent opponent. It was a good match.” Her voice was calm, as if discussing the weather.
Ava leaned against the lockers, crossing her arms. “You are like a total loner, huh? We share secrets on a balcony and then I don’t see you for three weeks?”
Beatrice fastened her skirt, not looking up. “You saw me in classes.”
“That’s not what I mean and you know it.” Ava’s exasperation bubbled over. “We live across from each other. And you... I thought we were becoming friends?”
Beatrice finally looked at her, then slung her bag over her shoulder and began walking out of the changing room. Ava fell into step beside her, their shoes echoing in the tiled corridor.
“Why do you want to become my friend so badly?”
The question was a cold splash of water. Ava stopped walking. Beatrice took two more steps, before stopping as well, turning to face her.
“I don’t…”, Ava floundered, heat rising to her cheeks. “I just wanted to be nice to the new girl. I know how shitty that is, arriving mid-term. I did it last year. Everyone’s already friends. Everyone’s a fucking brat about it.”
Beatrice considered this. “Actually, everyone has been perfectly civil to me so far.”
Ava stared at her. The dismissal was so complete, so sterile. The warmth she’d felt on the balcony felt foolish now. A one-sided illusion.
“You know what?”, Ava said, her voice flat. “Forget it. I don’t know why I tried.”
She turned and walked away, her steps quick and final down the long hall.
Beatrice stood frozen, watching her go. A sharp, unfamiliar twinge of annoyance -no, alarm- jolted through her chest. Ava’s retreating back felt wrong. It felt like a mistake, and the mistake was hers.
The realisation hit her, quite fast. The distance wasn’t just habit, wasn’t just a preference for solitude. It was a defence. A desperately needed barrier against the confusing, magnetic pull she felt toward Ava Silva. Against the way her name felt in Beatrice’s mouth. Against the way her laughter disrupted the quiet order of Beatrice’s world.
Distance was the logical, safe solution to prevent a mess. To prevent this exact, messy feeling now coiling in her gut.
Beatrice groaned, low and frustrated, the sound swallowed by the empty corridor.
She was never one to have a crush on a straight girl.
*
A few days after their last encounter, someone knocked on Ava’s door. She pulled it open.
The new girl stood there. Her expression was unreadable, but she held her school coat slightly open. A bottle of dark rum was tucked against her side.
Ava’s eyes widened.
“May I come in?”
Ava stepped aside without a word. Beatrice moved past her, and a scent followed. It was rich and unexpected. Tobacco leaf, sweet vanilla, something like old books. It was a deep, warm, adult fragrance. Weird for a sixteen-year-old girl. Intriguing. Ava hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because she had never been in such a small confined space with the other girl.
Beatrice’s gaze swept Ava’s room- the posters, the clothes on the chair, the general cheerful chaos. She didn’t comment. She simply walked to the centre of the room and sank onto the rug on the floor, her coat still on. She placed the bottle between them.
Ava closed the door and joined her, sitting cross-legged across from her. She took the offered bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a burning swig. She handed it back.
Beatrice took a long, practiced pull. No wincing.
“Didn’t think you drank.”, Ava said, wiping her mouth.
“I don’t.”, Beatrice replied, recapping the bottle for a moment. “If it’s cheap liquor.”
Ava gasped, a hand flying to her chest in mock offence. “The audacity. We will make sure to stock up properly next time, your highness.”
A faint, almost-smile touched Beatrice’s lips. It faded. She looked down at the bottle in her hands, turning it slowly. “I’m… I apologise. For the other day.”
Ava stayed quiet, letting her talk.
“I wasn’t actually sent here to make friends.”, Beatrice continued, her words deliberate. “I thought I would simply have to endure the next two and a half years. Keep my head down. Excel. Then go off to Oxford, or an Ivy League, or wherever my parents wanted to ship me off to next.” She shrugged, a small, stiff movement. “Making connections… it seemed like an unnecessary complication.”
Ava absorbed this. The strategy of it. The loneliness of it. “So why were you shipped off to Spain? London must have, like, a thousand fancy schools.”
Beatrice looked up from the bottle, her dark eyes meeting Ava’s. She seemed to be weighing something, deciding how much of the truth this strange, persistent Canadian girl was owed. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant sound of a nun’s footsteps fading down the hall.
Finally, she took another drink, passed the bottle back, and held Ava’s gaze.
“It was… a disciplinary measure.”, she said, the words precise and cold.
Ava’s brows knitted together. “What did you do that made your parents want to discipline you?”
Beatrice took another long swig from the rum bottle. The liquid warmth was spreading, mixing with a nervous heat under her skin. She shrugged out of her coat, letting it pool behind her on the rug.
“They found out.”, she started, while focusing on a loose thread in the wool beneath her. “About my girlfriend- my ex, I suppose. The one I told you about. My parents are… very religious. And they thought a strict Catholic boarding school for girls was the perfect place to put their daughter back on the… correct path.”
For a moment, there was only silence. Then Ava burst out laughing- a loud, startled sound that filled the small room.
Beatrice flinched, looking up, bewildered.
“Oh my god!”, Ava wheezed, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Isn’t that, like, every lesbian’s dream? Being sent to an all-girls school? It’s practically a movie plot!”
A slow, reluctant smile tugged at Beatrice’s mouth. She hadn’t considered the irony from that angle. “I suppose it is a rather tragic cliché.”, she conceded, taking the bottle back from Ava’s shaking hand.
They drank in comfortable silence for a minute, the shared secret a tangible thing in the space between them.
Then Beatrice cleared her throat softly. Her gaze was fixed on the bottle’s label, but her question was deliberate. “How did… your night go? With your boyfriend.”
It took Ava a second. Then a deep flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks. Embarrassment, liquor, something else. “Uh. We didn’t.”
Beatrice’s head snapped up, her composure slipping for a genuine second. “Oh. I thought-”
“Nope.” Ava cut in. She took the rum back, needing the burn. “I actually… I don’t know if it was a good idea in the first place…”
Beatrice said nothing, just watched her. Her silence was an open door.
Ava’s mind drifted back to that bedroom. The scratchy duvet, JC’s eager hands, his whispered “Ava” with that local accent that suddenly felt coarse and unfamiliar.
All she could think about, staring at the ceiling, was the crisp, cool sound of another voice in the dark. Ava Silva. The way the syllables had been shaped with such deliberate care. How it had felt like a secret, just for her. A name that sounded like a beginning, not a demand.
She shook her head slightly, bringing herself back to her own floor, to Beatrice’s patient, waiting eyes. “Turns out some things are better as ideas.”
Ava offered Beatrice the bottle again. This time, when their fingers brushed, neither of them pulled away.
The rum was making the room feel softer, the edges blurring. Ava leaned back on her hands.
“So, you and your girlfriend… did you break up because your parents found out?”
Beatrice swirled the dark liquid in the bottle. “No. We broke up, because I needed a clean cut. I was going to be here. It seemed cruel to string her along, when…” She paused, searching for the right, clinical words, but the rum betrayed her. “When she loved me enough that she would have waited. Tragically loyal. I didn’t want that for her.”
Ava was mesmerised. The idea of a love so potent, it had to be surgically removed to protect the other person was a foreign, romantic concept. It felt like something from a classic novel, not real life.
“I can imagine…” Ava said softly, her gaze distant. “I wouldn’t have let you go either.”
Ava’s eyes snapped back to Beatrice’s, wide with sudden clarity. She just said that. Out loud. “I mean- well, you know. You’re super educated. You dress well. You smell really nice- uh, you’re not ugly. You’re the whole package. I would guess. For a girl. Who is also into girls.” It got worse by the minute.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Beatrice’s face. “You’ve only ever seen me in school uniform, and that one night we went out. How do you know I dress well?”
Ava raised an eyebrow, a challenge. “You arrived here in a Louis Vuitton trunk, Beatrice. I’m sure your wardrobe is full of Loro Piana or some other shit you rich folk wear.”
The smile on Beatrice’s face brightened, genuine and amused. “You rich folk? You said it yourself, your family is also wealthy.”
Ava chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. “Yeah, but not ‘European, we-have-generations-of-wealth-in-a-Swiss-vault’ kind of money. There’s a difference.”
Beatrice nodded, conceding the point. The topic of comparative wealth bored her. It was a language she’d been forced to speak her whole life, and it was dull. She shifted, her fingers brushing Ava’s, as she recaptured the bottle. “So. JC and you. You haven’t had intercourse with him, because it seemed like a bad idea. Was it a bad idea in general, or just with him?”
Ava bit the inside of her cheek, the warmth in her face returning. “I don’t know. I just… I didn’t feel like it that night. And we haven’t really seen each other since. There’s no way I can sneak a boy into my bedroom, even if I wanted to.”
Beatrice cocked an eyebrow, a flicker of something playful -and maybe a little daring- in her dark eyes. “Would you want to? Here?” Her gaze drifted pointedly around Ava’s room, landing on the Chris Evans poster tacked to the wall. “Right next to your… very inspirational artwork?”
The question was a live wire in the cozy, rum-hazed space between them. It wasn’t just about JC anymore. It was about desire, about secrecy, about the charged possibility of this very room.
Ava felt the heat bloom even higher on her cheeks, a tell-tale fire she was sure Beatrice could see in the dim light. She deflected, grasping for a different thread.
“Was your ex... the only person you’ve ever slept with?”
Beatrice took a small, neat sip from the bottle. “Yes.”
Thanks to the liquor and the strange intimacy of their conversation so far, Ava pushed a little. “What was it like? The first time?”
Beatrice’s composure faltered for a second- a slight stiffening of her shoulders, a blink that lasted a fraction too long. She cleared her throat. “What do you want to know, exactly?”
Seeing the subtle shift, Ava immediately backpedaled, her bravado crumbling. “Sorry, sorry. That’s probably way too personal. Forget I asked.”
But Beatrice was watching her, reading the genuine, nervous curiosity beneath the question. Ava needed this information. Not for gossip, but as a map.
“It’s alright.”, Beatrice said, her voice softer. She looked at the carpet, choosing her words with care. “It wasn’t awkward. At least, not in the way everyone warns you about. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing, honestly, but… it was a shared, beautiful experience. Because she was the person I loved.”
Ava nodded slowly, the words settling deep.
A shared, beautiful experience. Because she was the person I loved.
That was it. That was the hold-up. The missing piece. At least- that’s what Ava told herself.
Ava didn’t love JC. She didn’t even have a concept of being in love. She thought he was hot, and he was frankly the first boy who had shown a real, persistent interest in her since she’d arrived in this lonely, foreign place. He was a distraction. A trophy. A way to feel normal and wanted.
But he wasn’t a person she loved. And the idea of a first time without that love -without that shared, beautiful certainty Beatrice had just described- suddenly felt hollow. Like settling for a cheap print, when you could have the original painting.
“Yeah. That makes sense.”
*
Their friendship didn’t blossom so much as it took root in the fertile ground of that shared understanding that night. Beatrice stopped being a statue to admire from across the hall. She became a person who would linger in Ava’s doorway, a quiet, fragrant presence. They studied together- or rather, Ava attempted to study, while Beatrice effortlessly dissected Latin texts, occasionally tossing a translated answer Ava’s way without looking up. They sat together at lunch, Ava’s loud chatter a counterpoint to Beatrice’s serene silence. It was an understanding: Ava provided the noise and the initiative; Beatrice provided the unwavering presence. She still never made the first move, but she was always, unfailingly, there when Ava did.
Time slipped by, the grey Spanish winter giving way to a tentative spring. The week before spring break, Ava bounced into the common room, where Beatrice was reading.
“Weekend plan! Me, Cam, Lilith. Shopping spree in the city, then dinner, then a small party- just the four of us. Lilith’s parents are at some auction in Monaco. We have the winery to ourselves. You in or out?”
Beatrice looked up from her book, marking her place with a finger. She didn’t hesitate. “In.”
The trip was a whirlwind of snatched freedom. They tried on clothes they all could afford easily, but still didn’t buy, ate greasy food at a bustling tapas bar, and arrived at Lilith’s family winery as the sun set, painting the vineyards in gold and purple.
The vast, modern villa was empty. They raided the wine cellar- which quickly dissolved into giddy hedonism. Curled on a sofa, tipsy on a rich Tempranillo, Camila turned her big, curious eyes on Beatrice.
“So, Beatrice. Any love life to report? Anyone caught your eye here?”
Lilith snorted, swirling her glass. “Cam, you are failing the Bechdel test spectacularly.”
Beatrice chuckled, a low, warm sound that sent a familiar thrill through Ava, who was watching the scene from a plush armchair. “For one…”, Beatrice said, her tone lightly academic, “Camila asked about a love life. Specifying no gender. And for another, she’d have to be asking about a girl. And then she wouldn’t have failed.” She took a deliberate sip. “And no. There is no one at the moment. I had a girlfriend in London, but we broke up, before I came here.”
The effect was instant. Camila’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’. Lilith, who usually looked perpetually bored by human entanglements, arched a brow with genuine interest. Their heads all swivelled to Beatrice.
Ava just smirked, sinking deeper into her chair. A sweet, secret superiority warmed her chest. She knew. She’d known for weeks.
“Oh my god, tell us everything!”, Camila cooed, clapping her hands. “What was she like? Do you have pictures?”
Beatrice shifted, a rare flash of discomfort crossing her features. “That’s hardly necessary.”
“It’s entirely necessary!”, Camila insisted. Lilith nodded once, a gesture of dry support for the interrogation. Ava stayed quiet, but her eyes were fixed on Beatrice, her own curiosity a sharp, hungry thing.
With a resigned sigh, Beatrice pulled her phone from her pocket. She swiped and tapped for a moment, her face illuminated by the cool glow. She held it out.
Ava leaned forward. The photo showed two girls huddled under an umbrella. Beatrice’s smile softer, less guarded. And beside her, linked arm-in-arm, was a girl with a cascade of artfully messy blonde waves, a delicate, heart-shaped face, and a smile that was disarming. She was petite, gorgeous, and looked like she’d stepped from the pages of a glossy magazine.
“Wow, she’s stunning.”, Camila breathed.
Lilith gave a nod of approval. “Aesthetically pleasing.”
Ava said nothing. She just stared at the screen, her earlier smirk gone. A strange, sour weight settled in her stomach. The girl was beautiful. Obvious. Predictable. Everything about her- the blonde hair, the perfect smile, the way she clung to Beatrice’s arm- suddenly, irrationally, annoyed Ava. She didn’t know, why the sight of this very blonde, very pretty person felt like a personal slight. She just knew it did. Blonde is her type, apparently.
The guest room was quiet, the grandeur of the winery bled into there as well. Beatrice finished brushing her teeth and watched Ava, who had been uncharacteristically silent.
“You’ve been quiet.”, Beatrice said, leaning against the doorframe. “Regretting not inviting JC? I would have been a good sport. I’d have huddled with Camila and Lilith.”
Ava, who was already sitting on the edge of her bed, snapped her head up. “I don’t fucking care about JC…”
The vehemence was sharp, unexpected. Beatrice blinked, then said nothing. She turned away, pulling her soft cotton shirt over her head. She felt Ava’s gaze on her back as she reached for her sleep shirt.
As Beatrice slipped it on, Ava’s voice came again, quieter now, aimed at the floor.
“Your ex. She’s pretty.”
Beatrice didn’t reply.
“I didn’t know that was your type.”, Ava added, the words probing.
“What did you think was my type?”, Beatrice asked, her voice neutral. She kept her back to Ava, giving her space to speak.
“I don’t know. She’s all… blonde and blue-eyed.” Ava paused, the criticism poorly disguised as an observation. “But she is very pretty.”, she repeated, as if trying to convince herself. Or Beatrice. That she thought she was pretty. Which, objectively she was.
Beatrice finally turned. Ava was looking at her now, a confused, almost frustrated tension in her jaw. Beatrice still didn’t understand the source of the mood, but she stayed silent, letting it unfold.
They both slipped under their separate duvets in the large bed, the space between them feeling vast and charged.
Lying on their sides facing each other, Ava suddenly blurted it out, the words rushing into the quiet.
“I gave JC a handjob. Last week. We met up in town for a few hours. It was in a toilet stall.”
Ah.
The puzzle piece finally clicked into place. The weird mood, the snapping, the fixation on the ex-girlfriend. This was about that. About an unsatisfactory first sexual experience. Beatrice took a deep, slow breath. This topic was a minefield. She had worked so hard to redirect her own feelings into the safe channel of friendship. She could navigate this. She had to.
“I see.”, Beatrice said, her voice carefully measured. “And… how was that?”
Ava made a small, cringing noise in the dark. “Good? I think? Like, just going by… the end result of the whole thing? Mission accomplished?”
Beatrice closed her eyes for a second, parsing the deliberately awkward phrasing. He came. It was clinical. It was a report on a task completed, not an experience shared. When she opened her eyes again, she could see Ava watching her, waiting for a verdict she felt she wasn’t qualified to give.
“How do you feel about that?”
Ava sighed, the sound heavy in the dark. “I don’t know. JC is… he’s perfect, right? On paper. He’s hot, he’s into me, his parents are like super rich… he’s got the whole… thing. I don’t know why I feel like this. It’s just… all of a sudden, it feels wrong. Even though I’m like super attracted to him physically.”
She shifted, pulling the duvet tighter. “How did you know? With your… pretty, blonde supermodel ex.” The words tumbled out, sharp-edged. Ava winced, as soon as she said them. “No, don’t answer that. I know why. I’ve seen the picture. And heard the whole undying love thing.”
A quiet laugh escaped Beatrice, “You don’t know right away. You just… you know when you’re with the person. It feels right. You want to share everything with them.”
Ava looked at her then, really looked, her eyes searching Beatrice’s face in the dim light. “Like they’re your best friend.”
The observation hit Beatrice with a quiet, stunning force. It was so simple, so devastatingly accurate. It was the core of the loneliness she’d felt in every other interaction here, except for Ava. “Yes-sort of. You have to be friends with the person you’re dating. I actually believe that.”
Ava groaned, flopping onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “Ugh. I can’t tolerate JC outside of our make-out sessions. He’s so pretentious. ‘My father’s Maserati this, my brother’s finance job that.’ It’s all he talks about. I just want to tell him to shut up and… I don’t know. Exist.”
Beatrice stayed on her side, watching the profile of Ava’s face. The confession, the frustration, was so painfully, wonderfully honest. It was the antithesis of efficiency.
“Then maybe…”, Beatrice started tentatively, “You have your answer.”
Ava turned her head back toward her. “Which is?”
“That he isn’t your friend. And if he can’t be that first…”, Beatrice let the sentence hang, the rest of the logic clear. Then he shouldn’t be anything else.
Ava held her gaze for a long moment, the truth of it settling between them. Then she gave a slow, definitive nod. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” A weight seemed to lift from her, replaced by a new, thoughtful tension. Her eyes stayed on Beatrice. “Thanks…”
“Anytime, Ava Silva.”
This time, when Ava smiled, it reached her eyes. And this time, Beatrice didn’t look away.
*
The crack appeared weeks later, at another sprawling villa, another sea of privileged anonymity.
Ava was floating on a pleasant buzz, orbiting the edges of the crowd, when she saw her.
Beatrice, leaning against a grand piano, deep in conversation with a girl Ava didn’t recognise. She wasn’t from their school, not from their usual circle.
Ava watched, her drink suddenly tasteless.
The girl said something, her laugh bright. She reached out, her hand resting comfortably on Beatrice’s shoulder. A casual, friendly touch. Beatrice didn’t stiffen. She laughed as well, a real, unguarded sound that carried across the room. Ava saw Beatrice’s gaze drop to the girl’s mouth once, twice… a third time.
Something hot and acidic surged in Ava’s chest. Before she could think, her feet were carrying her across the floor.
“Hey!”, Ava said, her voice brighter than she felt, slotting herself into their space. “I was looking for you... I’m Ava, hey.”
The girl smiled warmly. “Hi, I’m Dora. Beatrice was just telling me about the fencing team.”
“Yeah, she’s annoyingly good at it.”, Ava said, her eyes fixed on Beatrice, who was watching her with a carefully neutral expression.
“Well…”, Dora said, sensing the shift. She gave Beatrice’s arm a light squeeze. “It was lovely talking to you. Find me later?” Her gaze was pointed, hopeful.
Beatrice gave a small nod. “Perhaps.”
As Dora melted back into the party, Ava turned on Beatrice. “What was that?”
“A conversation.”, Beatrice replied, her tone even. “She’s a friend of the host’s sister. We were just talking.”
“Didn’t look like just talking.”
Beatrice’s composure faltered, a flicker of confusion in her eyes. “What are you implying?”
The words tumbled out, petty and raw. “She’s not blonde and blue-eyed.”
Beatrice’s hand shot out, fingers closing around Ava’s elbow. Her grip was firm, insistent. Without a word, she steered Ava through the French doors and onto an empty terrace.
“What is wrong with you?”, Beatrice hissed, dropping her hand, as if burned.
“I’m just saying…”, Ava shot back, rubbing her arm, “She’s not your usual type.”
“Having a type is a superficial construct.”, Beatrice retorted, her voice low and tight. “People don’t choose partners based on a checklist of features. At least, I don’t. And for your information, we were simply getting to know each other.”
“I saw the way you looked at her.”
“And?” The challenge in Beatrice’s voice was cold, daring Ava to name what she’d seen.
Ava took the dare. “Would you sleep with her?”
Beatrice recoiled, as if struck. The controlled mask shattered, revealing pure, bewildered hurt. “Ava.”, she breathed, the name a question and an accusation. “Where is this coming from?”
Ava didn’t have an answer. The heat of her own jealousy horrified her. She shook her head, her throat tight, and turned on her heel. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. She fled back into the house, taking the stairs two at a time, needing to be anywhere Beatrice wasn’t.
From the terrace, Beatrice watched her go, the cold air doing nothing to douse the fire of confusion in her gut. A moment later, she saw JC break from a group, his face etched with genuine concern, as he glanced toward the stairs Ava had taken. He hesitated only a second, before following Ava up.
For thirty minutes, Beatrice did nothing. The party’s pulse thrummed behind her, but the music was just noise now. The icy knot in her stomach tightened with each passing minute. Ava didn’t come back. JC hadn’t returned either.
Worry, sharp and acidic, eventually overrode the hurt and confusion. Something was wrong. Ava’s outburst, her flight… it wasn’t right.
Beatrice moved, her steps quick and purposeful. The upper floor was quieter, a labyrinth of closed doors and hushed hallways. She checked the first empty bedroom, a library nook. Nothing.
Then, from behind the second door at the end of the hall, she heard it. A muffled gasp. A low groan. The unmistakable, rhythmic creak of a bed.
Her hand was on the doorknob, before she could stop herself. She pushed it open.
The scene was illuminated by a single bedside lamp. Clothing was strewn across the floor. On the rumpled duvet, Ava was on her back, her face turned towards the door. Her eyes, wide and glazed, locked instantly with Beatrice’s. JC was above her, his back to the door, oblivious.
For a fractured second, the world stopped. Beatrice saw the shock, then the dawning, profound horror in Ava’s eyes.
Beatrice didn’t make a sound. She took one step back, then another. Her face was a frozen mask of disgust- not at the act itself, but at the brutal, ugly timing of it. At the devastating contradiction of it all.
She pulled the door shut.
She didn’t run. She walked, her posture rigid, down the stairs, through the still-thriving party, and out into the night. She walked all the way back to school in the cold dark, the image seared behind her eyes: Ava’s horrified stare meeting hers over JC’s shoulder.
Ava pushed JC off her the second the door closed. “Get out.”
“Ava, what-”
“GET OUT!”
He scrambled, grabbing his clothes, his face a mask of confusion and wounded pride. The door slammed behind him.
Ava curled into a ball on the ruined bed, the heat of shame burning through her like a fever. She hadn’t wanted this. Not really. She’d just wanted the noise in her head to stop, the confusing storm of seeing Beatrice with someone else to quiet. She’d used the first, easiest distraction available. And Beatrice had seen it. Had seen her.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the term.
In the halls, their eyes never met. If they entered the same room, one would leave. Beatrice’s gaze, when it accidentally crossed Ava’s path, was no longer cool or curious. It was empty. A fortified wall.
Ava’s attempts -a hesitant look, a half-step in her direction- were met with absolute, impenetrable silence. The friendship that had taken root was frost-killed, buried under a layer of mutual, devastating betrayal and shame.
The girl across the hall was a ghost again. This time, by choice.
*
The first real conversation happened in September of their junior year. The joint French coursework was a punishment from a universe with a cruel sense of irony. When the teacher announced the pairings, Beatrice’s hand was the first to rise, her voice cool, as she requested a reassignment. The request was denied. The universe, it seemed, was not done with them.
They met in the library, a neutral, nun-patrolled territory. Not the intimacy of a dorm room. Beatrice arrived exactly on time, laid out a meticulously completed project -research, structure, verb conjugations- on the oak table between them, and slid it towards Ava.
“It’s finished. You can copy it verbatim or adjust it, as you see fit. I don’t care.”
Then she opened her Latin textbook and began her own work, effectively ending the required collaboration, before it had begun.
Ava watched her for a long minute, the silent dismissal more painful than any shouted insult. The summer had been a void, and this was the void made flesh, sitting across from her, smelling of vanilla and tobacco and indifference.
“How was your summer?”, Ava ventured, her voice too loud for the hushed library.
Beatrice turned a page. “Uneventful.”
“How have you been?”
“Fine.”
Ava’s control snapped. She leaned forward, “Beatrice, are you never going to speak to me again?”
“I’m speaking to you now.”
“No, you’re giving me answers to questions I’ve been asking. You’re not even looking at me.”
Slowly, deliberately, Beatrice closed her Latin book. She placed her hands flat on the cover and finally lifted her gaze. It was like being examined by a frost-covered window. One eyebrow arched, a silent, challenging ‘well?’.
“Listen…”, Ava started, the words tripping over themselves. “What happened- before the break-”
“We don’t have to talk about it.”, Beatrice interrupted, her voice devoid of inflection.
“I feel like we do. I don’t know what happened, to be honest. I felt… I… he was there, and he was being nice, and…”
“He was being nice.”, Beatrice cut in, her tone sharpening into something deadly quiet, “So you thought, ‘I want to fuck you now’.”
Ava flinched. The vulgarity from Beatrice’s mouth was a shock.
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It doesn’t matter.”, Beatrice shrugged, “It’s your life. And your choice. I’m happy you finally made one. It was painful having to listen to your ‘will I, won’t I’ act. It’s just sex. Not some life-altering thing that warranted your endless philosophical musings about it.”
The blow landed with precision, striking the exact memory of Ava’s confessions about JC. Ava’s breath hitched. She knew Beatrice didn’t believe that. Knew she believed the opposite.
Swallowing the hurt, Ava tried a different door. “Have you dated? Anyone?”
“No.”
Ava pressed on, desperation seeping in. “JC and I… we broke things off. Right after. It wasn’t right. He wasn’t right. I don’t know, why I did it.” The confession was raw, honest. She truly didn’t understand the chaotic storm of feelings that had led her to that bed, only the hollow, sickening clarity that followed. And she still wasn’t sure, why Beatrice was so offended by it. She’d decided it was the argument that had preceded the moment.
Beatrice said nothing for a long moment. She just looked at Ava, and for a second, the frost in her eyes seemed to waver, revealing a glimpse of the same profound confusion Ava felt. Then she picked up her pen.
“Your motivations are your own concern. The French project is due Thursday. I suggest you familiarise yourself with it.”
She reopened her Latin book. The conversation, such as it was, was over. The wall was back, thicker than before. But for a second, Ava had seen a crack. And she knew, with a sinking, hopeful dread, that she would spend the rest of the term trying to pry it open.
*
The following weeks were a desperate observation (or obsession, however one might see it). Ava, who had once sought Beatrice out with cheerful noise, now studied her from a distance. It was a cruel education.
She watched Beatrice in the courtyard, her posture a straight, unyielding line against the grey stone. She watched her in the gym, a blur of controlled fury during fencing practice. She listened, hidden behind a bookshelf, as Beatrice conversed fluently with the French literature professor, the language flowing from her like a native melody, and later, heard her speaking to their peers with a Madrid accent so flawless, it erased her British origins.
It was in the small things: the precise flick of her wrist to toss her dark hair over a shoulder, the way her brows -always so perfectly shaped- drew into a faint, frustrated crease, as she solved a complex calculus problem at the library table, the tip of her tongue just visible at the corner of her mouth.
What the fuck.
It was a revelation. She had known she liked girls, too. But now she was devastatingly, hopelessly attracted to this girl. The evidence had been there, written in the tension of her own jealousy, the way Beatrice’s laughter had always felt like a private victory, the way her full name in that crisp accent had sparked something low in Ava’s belly. She’d just been too busy trying to be casual about it, trying to want JC, to see it.
And she had blown it. Spectacularly.
The memory of that night was a blur of confusion and bad decisions. She’d let JC touch her, wanting to feel something -anything- other than the image of Beatrice looking at Dora. It had been fumbling, awkward, and ultimately empty. They hadn’t even really spoken after.
She’d traded the possibility of something real, something terrifying and beautiful she didn’t even fully understand, for a grubby, meaningless non-event with a boy whose conversation bored her.
She hadn’t just broken their friendship. She’d defiled the very possibility of what could have been, and in doing so, had proven herself unworthy of the quiet, magnificent person Beatrice was.
*
The trip to Camila’s family home outside Madrid was supposed to be a thaw. A Christmas respite. It was, instead, a mobile icebox.
Camila was driving, the radio filling the silence her friends wouldn’t. Yasmine rode shotgun, casting frequent, worried glances into the backseat.
In the back, Ava and Beatrice were the epitome of polarised tension. Ava sat behind Camila, pressed against the door, staring out at the speeding Spanish countryside. Beatrice sat behind Yasmine, a textbook open on her lap, unread, her gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window.
Camila and Yasmine knew a cataclysm had occurred. The easy rhythm of the group had shattered after the party last term. They’d remained loyal to both, a delicate diplomatic operation, but neither Ava, nor Beatrice had offered an explanation. The silence was its own heavy confession.
“So, Beatrice…”, Yasmine began, twisting in her seat to spear the quiet. “No Christmas at home in London? I thought your parents would want you back for the holidays.”
Beatrice didn’t look away from the window. “I didn’t go home for the summer, either. I stayed with a close relative in Austria. My parents’ postings keep them… mobile. Seeing them is logistically complicated. And not particularly desired.”
The clinical detachment in her voice was absolute. Ava’s head turned sharply from her window. She stared at the profile of Beatrice’s face. Austria? All summer? She’d pictured Beatrice in London museums, or at some Scottish estate. Not alone in Austria. And the phrase ‘not particularly desired’ echoed in the car’s quiet. Ava had seen the poised diplomat mother, had imagined a life of stiff, formal love. But this sounded like something colder. A deliberate distancing.
Ava felt a fresh wave of shame, hotter and more complicated than before. She’d been so wrapped up in her own drama, her own confusing heart, that she’d never really asked. She’d accepted the ‘disciplinary measure’ story and built a whole narrative of stern-but-loving parents around it. She’d missed the bleak reality beneath.
Beatrice had been exiled, first by her family, then by Ava. And she’d spent her summer in silent isolation because of it.
The car filled with a new kind of quiet. Yasmine, sensing she’d stumbled into a minefield, turned back around slowly.
Ava looked down at her own hands, the truth settling into her bones with a heavy, cold clarity. She hadn’t just broken a friendship. She’d abandoned someone who was already alone. The realisation made her infinitely sad.
Camila’s family home was a balm of warmth and chaos. Her parents embraced them all with an enthusiasm that made the arctic car ride feel like a distant dream. The house was large enough that Ava and Beatrice were given separate rooms at opposite ends of a long, tiled hallway. Yasmine, whose family didn’t celebrate Christmas, had bunked in with Camila, a practical and friendly solution that only highlighted the separation of the other two.
Dinner was a loud, joyful affair. Camila’s mother, Dr. Elena Rosales, was a theoretical physicist with a laugh that could shake the cutlery. Her keen eyes, used to probing the mysteries of the universe, immediately focused on Beatrice, detecting the quiet, analytical mind beneath the polished exterior. They fell into a rapid, flowing conversation in Spanish about the inherent symmetries in particle physics and their unexpected echoes in Renaissance architectural principles. Beatrice’s answers were sharp and insightful, her Spanish accent impeccable, and a genuine, engaged smile touched her lips for the first time in months. Ava watched, poking at her polvorones, feeling a pang of something that was both admiration and a deep, lonely ache.
Afterwards, they retreated to a cozy upstairs living room. The easy comfort of the space, the residual warmth from the family dinner, began to work on the group’s frozen dynamic. Yasmine launched into a hilarious story about her younger siblings attempting to build a fort that collapsed on their nanny.
“I’m an only child.”, Beatrice said when the laughter died down, swirling the hot chocolate Camila’s mother had brought up. “It has its advantages. No one to collapse a fort on you.”
“Me too.”, Ava added quietly, from her corner of a large armchair.
“Lucky you both.”, Camila sighed dramatically. “My older brother, Diego, is descending tomorrow for the 24th. Prepare for relentless teasing and him eating all the turrón.”
The conversation drifted, lighter now, a fragile bridge built over the silent chasm between two of its members. When yawns began to overtake them, they parted for the night with murmured goodnights.
Ava walked to her room at one end of the hall. She paused at her door, watching, as Beatrice, without a backward glance, opened her own door at the far end and disappeared inside.
The distance felt both immense and suffocating.
Ava waited a full ten minutes, then she walked out of her own room, staring at the closed door. Then, before she could think better of it, she crossed the space and knocked softly.
A beat of silence. “Yes?”, Beatrice’s voice was muffled through the wood.
“Are you already sleeping?”
Another pause. “Yes.”
Ava rolled her eyes, pushed the door open, and stepped inside, closing it behind her.
Beatrice was sitting up in bed, the blankets pooled around her waist. She wore a grey tank top. No bra. The soft light from the bedside lamp caught the vague, undeniable outline of her body. Ava’s gaze snapped away, fixing on the floor.
“I need us to stop fighting.”, Ava said, the words rushing out.
Beatrice’s shoulders slumped. “I’m really not in the mood to have this conversation now.”
“When will you ever?”, Ava’s voice broke.
Beatrice looked at her, a deep weariness in her eyes. It was a look of defeat. Ava, her courage faltering, walked further into the room and sank onto the floor at the foot of the bed, her back to Beatrice.
“Why do you care, if I speak to you or not? You have enough friends.”
“Because…”, Ava trailed off. The real reason stuck in her throat, terrifying and impossible. Because I think about you all the time. Because seeing you with someone else felt like dying. Because I’m an idiot who didn’t know what she had until she ruined it. The words wouldn’t come.
She took a shaky breath and went for the safer, tragic truth. “Do you not miss me? Do you not miss our friendship?”
The silence that followed was cold, but Beatrice’s answer was colder, “Was it ever a friendship?”
The blow was physical. Ava flinched. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes searching Beatrice’s face. “I… I thought we…” Her voice was small. “So you’re totally fine with us never speaking again? You’re not interested in me or my life at all?”
Beatrice said nothing. She just held Ava’s gaze, her expression an impenetrable mask.
Ava’s eyes glazed over, a sheen of unshed tears. Beatrice saw it, saw the way Ava’s jaw tightened, the painful swallow. A muscle in Beatrice’s own jaw flickered.
“Okay.”, Ava whispered, the sound shattered. “I will back off.”
She stood up silently, turned before the first tear could fall in front of Beatrice, and walked out.
*
Ava truly vanished.
Not physically, but in every way that mattered. At Camila’s, she became a ghost in the opposite wing. She didn’t ask Beatrice to pass the salt. She didn’t glance her way during board games. If Beatrice entered a room, Ava would find a reason to leave, her exit smooth and utterly final. It was a masterclass in erasure.
Back at school after the break, the operation became military in its precision. Beatrice, out of habit born of months of painful observation, kept track.
Ava switched out of their shared Art History seminar. She dropped the optional Astronomy module Beatrice took. She changed her free period to the opposite block. It was a systematic dismantling of every accidental point of contact. The only class she couldn’t escape was Advanced French- a required credit, a cage they shared three times a week.
It was in that class that Beatrice’s own carefully constructed fortress began to crack. She would feel Ava’s presence like a physical ache two rows back and to the left. She’d hear her fumble a subjunctive tense and her own hand would twitch with the old, automatic urge to whisper the correction.
But Ava never looked her way. Not once. When called upon to dialogue, Ava’s responses to Beatrice were grammatically perfect, tonally neutral, and utterly devoid of any recognition beyond that of a classmate. A stranger.
The pointed avoidance, the absolute silence where there had once been so much relentless, sunny noise, was a vacuum. And in that vacuum, Beatrice’s suppressed feelings didn’t die; they mutated, growing thorns and claws.
The anger she’d nursed -at the betrayal, the carelessness- curdled into something else. It transformed into a raw, agonizing want that shocked her with its persistence. Every averted glance felt like a slap, and each one made Beatrice’s fingers curl with the insane, vivid impulse to reach out, to grab Ava Silva by the shoulders, to make her see, why it hurt so much. To kiss that stubborn, downturned mouth, until the polite indifference shattered and Ava forgot how to be anyone but the girl who grinned on balconies and whispered secrets on dorm room floors. To kiss her, until she forgot her own name and only remembered the feel of Beatrice’s mouth against hers.
It was an infuriating, self-destructive thing- all of it. She had pushed Ava away to kill this exact feeling. She had built walls to be safe. And now, faced with Ava’s complete and utter retreat, Beatrice realised that the walls were the prison, and the silence was the torture.
Ava’s absence wasn’t a relief; it was the only thing she could think about.
*
The party Camila and Ava had planned, was a ritual. Ava was sitting on her dorm room floor, as she slowly brushed out her long hair. Camila lounged on the bed, scrolling through her phone.
“So, we’re taking my car…”, Camila started apprehensively. “Should we ask Beatrice, if she wants a ride? Save her getting a taxi.”
Ava’s brushing slowed. She kept her eyes on the worn carpet. “She’s coming?”
“Yeah. She seemed… eager, actually. For once.”
Ava let out a short, humourless breath. “Well, I doubt she’ll want to be in a car with me… but you can ask her.”
“I will!”, Camila exclaimed and walked to the doorway. Before Ava could protest, Camila was across the hall, knocking on Beatrice’s door.
Ava froze, the brush hovering mid-stroke. She didn’t turn.
The door opened. From her peripheral vision, Ava could see Beatrice’s frame in the doorway. And then she felt it- the weight of a gaze. Beatrice wasn’t looking at Camila. She was looking past her, into Ava’s room, at Ava sitting on the floor.
Ava felt the stare, a slow heat crawling up her neck. She kept her eyes down, pretending profound interest in the hairbrush in her hand.
“Party starts at eight, we need to be there earlier to set up.”, Camila was saying, her voice cheerful. “Want to join us? Ride together?”
There was a beat of silence. Ava’s heart hammered against her ribs.
“Yes.”, Beatrice said, the word coming out a bit too quickly. “That would be… nice of you guys.”
Nice of you guys.
At the sound of her voice, so… agreeing, Ava’s eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch in surprise. She couldn’t help it. Her head turned and her gaze flicked up -just for a second- looking through the veil of her own lashes to meet Beatrice’s across the hall.
Beatrice swallowed, hard. The direct eye contact, however brief, was a jolt.
Ava immediately broke it. She stood up in one fluid motion, turning her back to the doorway, moving out of Beatrice’s line of sight, as if burned. She busied herself at her dresser.
“Great!”, Camila said, blissfully unaware of the silent lightning strike that had just occurred. “Half an hour. Go, get ready.”
Beatrice nodded, a little frantically, and closed her door. Camila bounced back into Ava’s room. Ava didn’t turn around. She just stared at her own wide eyes in the mirror, the ghost of Beatrice’s arrested stare still imprinted on her skin.
The bungalow belonged to their friend Chanel, whose family was conveniently in Marbella for the holidays. Ava had the keys. She was allowed to do whatever to the house, as long as it was pristine afterwards.
She practically jumped out of Camila’s car, before it had fully stopped, a nervous energy propelling her toward the trunk. Beatrice got out more slowly, her eyes tracking Ava’s movements.
They met at the back, a silent agreement passing between them to unload the supplies. As Beatrice lifted a crate, her gaze caught on the bottles within. Among the standard fare was a premium vodka, its label expensive.
“You splurged.”, Beatrice observed, her voice low, as she hefted the crate. “Chopin. A significant upgrade from gutter vodka.”
Ava didn’t look at her, focusing on balancing another box. “I have connections. I hoped, it would be to your taste.”
The words were polite, but delivered with a clinical detachment that left no room for the old teasing. It was a statement of fact, not a challenge. Beatrice felt the sting of it but said nothing.
However, she could not ignore the fact that Ava had gone out of her way to please Beatrice. And Beatrice also felt a sting because of that.
They worked in a wordless, efficient tandem, carrying everything inside. They set up the kitchen island with snacks, arranged bottles, filled ice buckets. It was a familiar dance, but performed in complete silence. As the first guests began to trickle in, Ava shifted seamlessly into host mode, her clinical tone melting into bright, easy warmth for everyone else.
Beatrice retreated to the periphery, a drink in her hand, and just watched. She followed Ava with her gaze, as she moved through the growing crowd, laughing, touching arms, guiding people to the drinks. She was a natural, a sun around which people orbited.
The party found its rhythm, the noise settling into a steady hum. Ava finally had a moment, leaning against a doorframe, catching her breath. Her eyes scanned the room and landed, inevitably, on Beatrice.
Beatrice didn’t look away. She held Ava’s gaze captive, her dark eyes doing a slow, deliberate sweep of the outfit she’d been trying not to stare at all night. The red heart-shaped crop top that drew every eye in the room. The low-slung jeans that hugged the sharp curve of her hips and revealed the tempting dimples at the base of her spine. Beatrice had known Ava was pretty in an energetic, messy way. But this… this was a different kind of awareness. A sharp, visceral punch of attraction that had nothing to do with friendship and everything to do with the clean line of her waist, the smooth skin of her stomach, the confident way she inhabited the clothes.
With a jolt of self-directed disdain, Beatrice realised it. She didn’t just like Ava Silva’s voice or her reckless courage. She was physically, undeniably drawn to her. To the whole maddening, beautiful package.
The realisation was a fuse, lit and sputtering. She waited, patient as a predator, until she saw Ava slip into the now-empty kitchen, likely for a reprieve.
Beatrice set her drink down and followed.
The kitchen was bright and quiet compared to the dim roar of the party. Ava was there, rummaging in a low cabinet, her back to the door, bent over at the waist, as she searched for more plastic cups. The posture pulled the fabric of her low-slung jeans even tighter, emphasising the graceful arc of her spine and those two, maddening dimples at its base. The sliver of skin between her crop top and jeans was a taunt.
Beatrice closed the kitchen door behind her. The sound of it announcing her arrival.
Ava straightened up instantly, a stack of cups in her hand. She turned, and her eyes widened slightly at the sight of Beatrice alone in the doorway, at the closed door. She took a small, instinctive step back.
“Did you need something?”, Ava asked, her voice carefully neutral, but a flicker of wariness in her eyes.
Beatrice didn’t answer. She just looked at her, drinking in the sight- the defiant outfit, the guarded expression, the way she held the flimsy plastic cups like a shield.
The fuse reached its end.
“Yes.”, Beatrice said, the word a low, rough admission in the quiet room. She took a step forward, eliminating the safe distance. “I do.”
Ava inhaled a sharp, shaky breath. The air in the closed kitchen felt thin, charged. “Well, uhm…”, she stammered, setting the plastic cups down on the counter, “How can I help?”
Beatrice’s eyes gaze intensified, becoming something focused and intense. Ava saw the shift and confusion flickered across her face, mingling with the wariness.
“I’ve been meaning to-”, Beatrice began, but the sentence was cut off.
The kitchen door burst open, letting in a blast of music and laughter. It was Sofia, a friend of Ava’s from her art class. “Ava! There you are! The cups? Did you find them? We’re doing waterfall shots and Carlos already spilled the first one!”
Ava’s relief was palpable, a visible loosening of her shoulders. “Yes! Here.”, she said, too eagerly, thrusting the stack into Sofia’s hands. She practically fled the scene, “I’ll, uh, I’ll help you prepare the drinks.”, she announced to Sofia, not looking back at Beatrice.
She was gone, swallowed back into the party, leaving Beatrice alone in the sudden quiet of the kitchen.
Beatrice didn’t move. She stared at the space where Ava had been, the ghost of her warmth. The interruption was a bucket of cold reality. The iciness between them was a tangible force now.
But then, the memory surfaced: Ava on the floor, tears glazing her eyes, whispering “Do you not miss me?” Ava knocking on her door in the dark. Ava trying, again and again, until she’d finally given up.
It was Beatrice’s turn. She wanted Ava Silva back in her life, even if just as a friend. Especially as a friend.
Beatrice smoothed her hands over her trousers, took a deep, steadying breath that did nothing to calm the nerves, and pushed open the kitchen door. The noise of the party hit her like a wave. Her eyes scanned the crowd, finding Ava almost immediately, laughing too brightly by the makeshift bar, helping Sofia pour drinks.
Beatrice didn’t approach. Not yet. She just watched. Waiting for an opening.
The plan to try dissolved in the acid of watching Ava drink. It wasn’t social sipping; it was a determined, reckless consumption that Beatrice tracked with a sinking heart. As the night wore on, the bright hostess melted into a loose-limbed, tactile version of herself. She was all careless touches and loud laughter, her hands landing on arms, shoulders. One of the boys from the neighbouring town, a guy named Mateo, seemed to take her every gesture as an engraved invitation.
Beatrice’s patience was growing thin, but she still stayed put.
Later, when she finally couldn’t stand the sight of Mateo’s hovering presence any longer, she went looking. She found Ava not with Mateo, but perched on Juan’s lap in a shadowy corner of the living room. Juan’s hands were large and possessive on her bare waist, his mouth close to her ear. Ava’s laugh in response was high, unmoored, the laugh of someone entirely separated from their own good sense.
That was the line.
Beatrice crossed the room to where they were seated. “Do you have any sense of propriety, or do you only set your sights on girls who are too drunk to know better?”
Juan’s head snapped up, his expression shifting from smug to irked.
“Vete a la mierda.”, he spat back. Fuck off.
Her reply in Spanish was low, venomous, and anatomically specific enough to make his eyes widen. Without breaking his glare, she reached down, her fingers closing firmly around Ava’s wrist. She pulled and pried her off Juan’s lap.
Ava stumbled, confused, her balance shot. “What’re you doing?”
“Getting you some air.”, Beatrice didn’t let go, steering her through the crowd, out the front door, and into the shock of the cool night. She released her then, crossing her arms over her own chest, as if to contain her fury.
“Can you please just take care of yourself more?” The words were clipped, laced with a worry that sounded like anger.
Ava wobbled, rolling her eyes with exaggerated slowness. “Fuck off, Beatrice.”
“We’re going back to school. Now.”
“I said, fuck you. Leave me alone.”
Beatrice’s control snapped. She grabbed Ava’s wrist again. “You’re not going back in there.”
“Why not?”, Ava challenged, trying to yank her arm free.
“Because I don’t care if you hate me…”, Beatrice hissed, leaning in, “But I’m absolutely not letting that guy touch you when you’re so fucking drunk you don’t even know the concept of consent.”
“Why do you care so much?”, Ava shouted back, the words slurring.
“Because I care about you!”
“You don’t! You just don’t like seeing me happy!”
The accusation was so wrong, so painfully backwards, it broke something loose in Beatrice.
“Did it make you happy? When he touched you here?”, she shot back, her voice dropping dangerously. Her free hand came up, her thumb pressing into the bare, warm skin of Ava’s hip, just above the waistband of her jeans. Ava jolted at the contact. “Would you like it, if he took off your clothes? If his paws were all over you?”
Ava yanked herself back, out of Beatrice’s grasp, her breath coming fast. “Maybe I would!”
Beatrice set her jaw, the final thread of hope snapping. “Fine. Do what you want.”
She turned and walked away, down the gravel drive, away from the lights and the noise.
“Hey!”, Ava’s shout followed her. Then the crunch of gravel, as Ava stumbled after her. “Why did you even come here? Seriously? To play chaperone? Be the buzzkill?”
Beatrice whirled around so suddenly, Ava almost collided with her. They were close, too close, breathing the same sharp, cold air. “I came, because I wanted to be close to you.”, Beatrice erupted, the truth torn from her. “I came, because you have been ignoring me for the last five weeks and I hated it, and I came here to change that.”
Ava swallowed, her drunken bravado evaporating into stunned silence. They stood there, chests heaving.
“But you hate me…”, Ava whispered, confusion clouding her eyes.
“I don’t hate you, you fucking moron!”, Beatrice was on the verge of tears, “I like you. And I’ve liked you for over a year now, and-” Her hands came up, an aborted, furious gesture, as if she wanted to shake Ava or pull her close. Instead, they fell helplessly to her sides. The confession hung, naked and terrifying, in the space between them.
Beatrice couldn’t bear it. She turned on her heel and walked away, into the dark, leaving Ava standing alone on the gravel drive, her mind reeling with what had just happened between them.
But the night was not over.
Just when Beatrice had returned from brushing her teeth, her face scrubbed clean of makeup, the scent of mint and cold water clinging to her skin, she heard the knock. It was soft, hesitant, and it came well past midnight.
She opened the door.
Ava stood on the other side. Her eyes, still glassy but clearer now, found Beatrice’s. There was a heartbeat of silence, a silent question hanging in the air. Then Ava moved.
Her mouth was on Beatrice’s, sudden and demanding. The taste of vodka and lime flooded Beatrice’s senses. Ava’s tongue sought entry, her hands coming up to frame Beatrice’s jaw, her fingers tangling in the hair at her nape, pulling her down to close the height difference. It was all heat and desperation.
Beatrice, acting on pure instinct, managed to kick the door shut behind them, before the part of her brain screaming sobriety could fully engage. She disengaged gently, to create a breath of space between their mouths.
“Wait.”, she whispered against her lips.
Ava followed, seeking her mouth again, the word not registering. This time, Beatrice let her. The kiss softened, slowed. It was still Ava leading, her tongue a sweet, searching pressure, but the frantic edge was gone. It was chaste, almost questioning. Beatrice kissed her back, letting herself feel the dizzying rightness of it- the softness of Ava’s lips, the little sigh she made, the way her body seemed to melt forward. The butterflies were a riot in her stomach, a joyful, terrified fluttering.
But beneath the joy, a cold, persistent truth remained. The taste of alcohol was still there, a taint on the perfection.
After a long, breathless moment, Beatrice broke the kiss again, resting her forehead against Ava’s. Ava blinked rapidly, her confidence faltering.
“You do like me like that, right?”, Ava’s voice was small, vulnerable.
“Yes.”, Beatrice answered instantly, “I do. Yes.”
Ava stood there, swaying slightly, the unspoken question clear in her hazy eyes: Then why are you stopping?
Beatrice took a steadying breath, her hands still cradling Ava’s face. “I can’t do this when you’re drunk. Because I’m not sure how much you’ll remember tomorrow. And I want… I need your head to be clear for this conversation.”
Ava laughed, a soft, dreamy sound. She leaned in, nuzzling Beatrice’s cheek. “I will for sure remember our first kiss.” She pulled back, a mock-offended pout on her lips. “And the second one. And hey…”, she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “Just so you know… I’ve had a crush on you too. For like… also a long time.”
Beatrice inhaled sharply, the confession making her almost break the restraints. The desire to kiss her again, to seal that admission with every part of herself, was almost overwhelming. But she doused it. This was too important. She would ask about all of it, when Ava’s head was clearer.
Ava’s eyes drifted past her, toward the single bed. “Can I… stay? Here?”
Beatrice looked at her own narrow bed, then back at Ava’s hopeful, intoxicated face. The war between want and principle raged for a second. Principle, edged with care, won.
She nodded slowly. “You can stay. But just to sleep, Ava.”
Ava’s answering smile was beatific, as if that was all she’d wanted to hear. She toed off her shoes and stumbled toward the bed, collapsing onto it with a sigh. Beatrice watched her for a moment, her heart a tangled, aching mess of longing and protectiveness, before turning off the light and climbing in beside her.
*
Ava woke to a low, relentless thrumming behind her eyes. She groaned, the sound harsh in the quiet room.
Instantly, Beatrice was there, leaning over her. In one hand was a glass of water, in the other, a single painkiller. Her expression was carefully neutral.
“Here.”, Beatrice said, her voice morning-rough.
Ava accepted both with a grateful murmur, swallowing the pill and draining half the glass, before flopping back onto the pillow. She stared at the unfamiliar ceiling, the events of the night assembling themselves in her aching head like scattered puzzle pieces. Slowly, she turned her head to regard Beatrice, who had settled back onto her own pillow, watching her.
“Why am I in your bed?”, Ava asked, her voice tinged with innocent confusion.
Beatrice’s face did something complicated- a flicker of hope extinguished, replaced by a swift, practiced blankness. She blinked rapidly, looking away. “You don’t-”
Ava burst out laughing, a bright, clear sound that made her wince and clutch her head. “I’m kidding! I remember everything. Well, except some parts from the party. That was peak Drunk Ava. The taxi ride back here is… fuzzy.”
The relief that washed over Beatrice left her dizzy. She tried to scowl, but it felt weak.
Ava fumbled in the pocket of her jeans, pulling out a stick of gum. She unwrapped it, popped it in her mouth, chewed vigorously for a moment, then -to Beatrice’s utter bewilderment- spat the gum neatly into her own palm and re-wrapped it in the foil. Before Beatrice could question the bizarre hygiene, Ava’s hand was on the back of her neck, pulling her down.
The kiss was a surprise. It was minty and warm and sure. Beatrice hummed softly into it, her initial shock melting away. One of Ava’s legs hooked around Beatrice’s, tugging her closer, shifting their bodies, until Beatrice was half-sprawled on top of her, the weight and heat of her a perfect, new reality.
They kissed for a long time, a slow, explorative discovery. It was Ava, who finally broke it, breathless, a smug little smile on her swollen lips.
“Tell me again…”, she whispered, her fingers tracing Beatrice’s jaw. “How you were pining and crushing on me.”
Beatrice groaned, burying her face in Ava’s neck to hide her flush. She pressed a kiss there instead. “You were really annoying. You still are…”, she muttered against her skin. “And persistent. It’s actually very endearing.” She lifted her head, meeting Ava’s gaze. “What about you? When did you know you liked girls too?”
Ava smiled. “I’ve always known. You just… never asked.”
Beatrice blinked, the revelation tugging at her chest. All of the theatrics of the past year could have been avoided easily, if she hadn’t been so scared of telling Ava -who she presumed to be straight- about her feelings.
“Alright… then, what made you…”, Beatrice swallowed, her throat feeling suddenly very dry, “Why me?”
“Okay, at first I just thought you were just really hot… and unapproachable. Sue me, that kinda did it for me. Anything you did fascinated me, to be honest… I even grew to like your annoying ‘I’m British, and I know everything better’ attitude, and-”
Beatrice covered her mouth with her own, swallowing the rest of the sentence. Her ego needed the answer, but she decided, it didn’t matter now. The whys and the hows, the confusion and the jealousy. None of it mattered. Not when Ava was here, in her bed, kissing her back, her hands gripping her shirt, like she belonged to her, and no one else.
*
Their new reality was a secret, electric and confined. In a Catholic boarding school, under the watchful eyes of nuns and peers, their relationship became a series of stolen moments.
It was a dangerous game.
It was Beatrice who would cross the silent hall after lights-out, a ghost in slippers and pyjamas, slipping into Ava’s room. The door shut behind her, and the world would shrink to the space of Ava’s narrow bed. There were no profound declarations in the dark, just the frantic, grateful press of lips, the slide of nervous hands under cotton. They learned each other in fragments- the feel of a racing heartbeat under a palm; the specific sigh Ava made, when Beatrice’s thumb brushed the corner of her jaw; the way Beatrice’s hand would always stop Ava’s eager ones, when they wandered a bit too far.
But the daytime thefts were always orchestrated by Ava. She learned Beatrice’s fencing schedule. Afterwards, while the others showered and chattered, Ava would find an excuse to seek out Beatrice -a French project or help with calculus- and linger in the changing room.
Ava would watch from a bench, as Beatrice, still humming with the focused energy of a bout, peeled off her damp undershirt. Ava’s gaze would trace the lines of her body. She’d avert her gaze, as Beatrice would step out of her briefs. Everything was done with athletic grace. Even the motion of her pulling on her school uniform -the tights, the pleated skirt, the crisp white blouse- was a private ritual Ava felt privileged to witness, a thrill coiling low in her stomach. It was those times, she’d even think about what it would feel like to take off that uniform.
She’d wait until the last of the other girls had left, until the only sounds were the distant drip of a shower and the rustle of Beatrice’s bag.
Then, and only then, would Ava move.
She’d rise from the bench and cross the tiled floor.
Beatrice would sense her, turning, just as Ava reached her. No words were needed. Ava would crowd her back against the cold metal of the lockers.
She’d kiss her, deep and lingering, tasting the ghost of salt and effort on her skin.
The starched collar of Beatrice’s newly donned uniform would brush against Ava’s chin.
*
The knock on her door one Friday evening was impatient. Beatrice opened it, her phone pressed to her ear, a tense frown marring her features.
“I understand.”, she said into the receiver, her voice clipped. She saw Ava and stepped aside, without breaking her conversation, her eyes darting past the other girl to scan the empty hall, before she closed the door.
Ava hovered just inside, watching, as Beatrice paced the small space between her bed and the desk.
“Yes, well, my plans were rather contingent on yours, but it’s fine. I’ll stay at school. No, don’t bother making other arrangements.” The hurt beneath the icy politeness was palpable. She ended the call and stared furiously at the darkened screen, her jaw tight.
“Everything okay?”, Ava asked softly.
Beatrice took a sharp breath, as if remembering she wasn’t alone. “My family. I was supposed to go home for the Easter recess. They’ve… had a change of plans. Something came up with my mother’s posting. So, I’ll be staying here. It’s fine.”
Ava tilted her head. “Why are you so mad? I thought you didn’t really like spending time with them anyway.”
Beatrice turned to look at her, and the rawness in her eyes was startling. “That… is something I said in a group of almost-strangers.” She gestured vaguely, a rare display of helpless agitation. “They shipped me off to Spain and haven’t bothered to act like they want me back. I saw them for two days last summer, when they deigned to visit me in Austria. Two days. That’s it.”
The reality of it hit Ava like a punch. She’d known it was bad, but the specifics painted a picture of a loneliness far deeper than she’d imagined. Guilt prickled at her for her flippant question, followed by a wave of helpless empathy. She had no script for this. No relationship experience to draw from (not that this was a relationship, her brain hastily corrected, even as her heart rebelled).
Wordlessly, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Beatrice. For a second, Beatrice remained rigid, then she melted into the embrace, her chin coming to rest on Ava’s shoulder. A heavy, shuddering sigh escaped her.
“I’m sorry, love.”, Beatrice murmured into the fabric of Ava’s shirt, her voice thick. “I didn’t mean to go off on you.”
Love.
The simple, casual endearment sent Ava’s heart into a wild, fluttering spin. It was just a Britishism, she told herself. A figure of speech. But the way it had sounded, soft and weary against her neck, felt so utterly right. And in that moment, holding Beatrice, as she let her guard down, feeling the weight of her disappointment and the trust in her surrender, the last of Ava’s internal denials crumbled. She didn’t just have a crush. She didn’t just want to sneak around and make out.
She wanted this. The comfort in each other. The shared hurt. The right to call Beatrice hers and to be called love in return, in earnest. She wanted them to be in a relationship.
Ava made a resolve: she would ask Beatrice about it- at a better time.
There was just one more hiccup: she just had no idea how to make it real in a world designed to keep it a secret.
*
The library was quiet, as usually, broken only by the rustle of pages and the scratch of pens. Sunlight streamed in dusty beams across the long oak table, where they sat side-by-side, a respectable foot of polished wood between them.
Beatrice was a picture of concentration, her brow slightly furrowed, as she annotated a dense passage of French philosophy. Ava had ostensibly opened her own French notebook. It was blank.
She watched Beatrice for a full minute- the way she bit her lower lip in thought, the elegant slant of her cursive, the focused stillness of her posture. A slow, warm mischief bloomed in Ava’s chest.
She leaned forward, just a little, her voice a low murmur meant for Beatrice’s ear alone. “Bea?”
“Hmm?”, Beatrice didn’t look up, her pen still moving.
“I need help with my French.”
That got her attention. Beatrice’s pen stopped. She glanced at Ava’s open notebook, its pristine emptiness, then up at Ava’s face. Her brows drew together in pure, uncomprehending bewilderment.
Ava held her gaze. Slowly, deliberately, she caught her own lower lip between her teeth, letting her smile bloom around it. She arched one eyebrow, a silent, blatant question.
For a breathtaking second, Beatrice’s perfect composure shattered. Her eyes widened, her lips parted on a silent inhale. She looked adorably flustered. She cleared her throat, a harsh sound in the quiet, and her gaze dropped violently back to her own textbook, as if the words might shield her.
She said nothing. For a long, tense minute, the only movement was the rise and fall of her ribcage, as she drew in and released breath after breath. Beatrice didn’t write another word. She just stared, unseeing, at the page.
Ava watched, her own heart hammering, the power of the effect heady and sweet.
Then, so quiet, it was almost a trick of the air, Beatrice spoke. Her eyes remained fixed on her book, but the words were clear, a whispered command.
“Meet me in my room in ten minutes.” A pause. A slight, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. “Don’t follow me now.”
She closed her book, gathered her things, and stood. Without a single glance at Ava, she walked away, her steps measured, but quick. She disappeared between the towering bookshelves.
Ava was left alone at the table. A slow, triumphant smile spread across her face. She counted the seconds.
Ten minutes later Ava slipped into Beatrice’s room. It was a collision. Beatrice, still in her uniform, barely had time to turn from placing her books on the desk, before Ava was on her, kissing her feverishly. They stumbled backward, falling onto the narrow bed with Ava ending up on top, her knees bracketing Beatrice’s hips, her hands cradling the other girl’s face, as she kissed her, deep and searching.
When she finally broke for air, her eyes were dark with intent. Her fingers found the knot of Beatrice’s school tie, loosening it with a series of quick, sure tugs, before sliding the silk completely free and letting it drop to the floor. She didn’t stop there. Her hands went to the buttons of Beatrice’s crisp white shirt, popping the first one, then the second, exposing the hollow of her throat and a glimpse of her collarbone. Beatrice arched into the touch, a soft sigh escaping her, her hands gripped Ava’s hips, granting permission for every bold advance.
Ava drew back, just enough to look Beatrice in the eyes. Her chest was heaving. The words tumbled out, without warning, “I think, I want to have sex with you.” Beatrice’s eyes flew wide.
“Wow. Okay.” A beat of stunned processing. “Now?”
Ava shook her head quickly, her cheeks flushing. “No- like, in general.”
The shift in the air was immediate. The heat of the moment cooled into something more vulnerable, more serious. Beatrice’s expression grew thoughtful, a hint of panic flickering behind her eyes.
She gently nudged Ava, creating enough space to shuffle up into a sitting position, her back resting against the cool wall at the head of the bed. She pulled the edges of her unbuttoned shirt a little tighter, a subconscious gesture of seeking cover.
Ava knelt on the mattress before her, suddenly nervous under Beatrice’s assessing gaze. “I mean... you’ve already done it. I’ve... already done it.” She winced at her own phrasing, at the clumsy reference to the distant memory with JC. “That- that has nothing to do with the fact that I really want to. With you.”
Beatrice regarded her, her mind racing. It wasn’t that she’d never thought about it. The opposite was true. She’d thought about it constantly, in vivid, aching detail. But thinking and planning were different. Thinking was safe. This was a precipice.
The first thing that emerged from the whirlwind in her mind was the most practical, immediate barrier. “Our doors don’t lock.”, she said, her voice oddly flat, as if this were the only logistical problem to overcome.
Ava nodded, her eyes never leaving Beatrice’s face, watching the subtle play of conflict and desire.
She waited.
Beatrice cleared her throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. She looked down at her own hands, then back up, meeting Ava’s hopeful, anxious gaze. The honesty was terrifying, but necessary. “I want to, too.”, she offered.
Ava’s face lit up with pure joy. “Yeah?”
Beatrice just nodded, her gaze steady, despite the storm inside.
Ava mirrored the nod, her mind visibly whirring. She bit her lip, her eyes scanning the space between them, as if looking for a solution. “I... I’ll figure something out…”, she promised.
Beatrice watched her, the fierce determination on Ava’s face both terrifying and exhilarating.
Then Ava’s expression softened, shifting back to the playful warmth from moments before. She scooted closer on the mattress, until their knees touched. “Can we… continue making out?”
A laugh -a real, surprised chuckle- escaped Beatrice. The tension in the room broke, replaced by a giddy, intimate warmth. Her hands came up to the parted edges of her own shirt. “Yes.”, she said, her voice laced with fond amusement. “But my shirt stays like this. You don’t go further than this.”
Ava’s face flickered with a mixture of understanding and a hint of a pout. The pout, ridiculous and endearing, was Beatrice’s undoing. Her expression softened. She reached down with one hand and undid a third button, revealing a subtle swell of her chest, the edge of her bra. “No further than this.”, she clarified, her voice scraping and raw.
Ava’s eyes darkened with desire, and she nodded eagerly, solemnly.
They moved together, fluidly finding their earlier position: Ava settling over Beatrice’s hips, the weight familiar and welcome. Ava dipped her head, planting a series of slow, open-mouthed kisses along Beatrice’s neck. Her hand, tentative at first, slid up Beatrice’s stomach and came to rest over her heart, the heat of her palm searing through the thin cotton of the shirt and bra. Her thumb brushed a slow, exploratory circle.
Beatrice’s head fell back against the pillow, her eyes drifting shut, before she forced them open to look at the ceiling, a soft, dazed smile on her lips. One of her hands came up to tangle in Ava’s long, dark hair, her fingers gently combing through the strands, anchoring herself in the sensation.
Ava’s mouth traveled upward, until she found Beatrice’s lips again. This kiss was different, deep and savouring. Ava’s tongue swept into her mouth, with a slow, tentative exploration, as if learning a new, beloved terrain. Beatrice met her stroke for stroke, her other hand coming to rest on Ava’s back, holding her close.
They stayed like that for a long time. Kissing, touching within the agreed boundaries.
*
Their friends found out about them soon.
It was during the study weekend at Camila’s house. Her parents were abroad, leaving them the run of the place for a final cram session, before the spring recess exams. The primary goal was academic survival. The secondary, unstated goal for everyone was to see, if the ceasefire between Ava and Beatrice would hold.
It did more than hold. A new dynamic had taken root, subtle, but unmistakable. It was in the quiet understanding that replaced the need for words, in the way their solitude as the only two staying at school over the break had become a shared, unspoken “us” instead of a lonely coincidence. They weren’t just not fighting; they were orbiting each other with a gentle, magnetic pull their friends couldn’t help but notice.
In their shared guest room -the same one Beatrice had occupied over Christmas- they lay side by side on the bed, the faint glow from the hallway light seeping under the door. Beatrice’s mouth was soft on Ava’s, a slow, deepening exploration that had Ava’s hands clutching at her shoulders. Beatrice’s own hand slid under the hem of Ava’s t-shirt, her palm smoothing over the warm, flat plane of her stomach.
Beatrice shifted, moving to hover over her, bracing her weight on one forearm, as she kissed her again, deeper this time. But after a moment, she felt it- a slight stiffness in Ava’s response, her mind clearly somewhere else. Beatrice broke the kiss, nudging Ava’s nose with her own.
“You’re awfully distracted.”, she murmured, her voice a low vibration against Ava’s lips. “Considering we are quartered in a wing far from the others, and I am, in fact, kissing you.”
Ava’s eyes, which had been staring vaguely at the ceiling, focused on Beatrice’s face. She bit her lip. “Should we tell the others?”
Beatrice blinked, pulling back just enough to see her better. “Tell them what, exactly?”
“That we’re…”, Ava floundered, the words elusive. She waved a hand between their bodies. “A thing.” She settled on the term. It was better than saying they were dating. Because she didn’t know, if they were.
Beatrice considered it. She thought of Lilith’s knowing looks, Camila’s warm, questioning smiles, Yasmine’s curious glances. The secret wasn’t as opaque as they’d thought.
“Alright.”, she said, surprising herself with how little fear the idea conjured. “I don’t mind telling them.”
Ava’s eyes widened. “Really?”
“Sure. They’re our friends. It’s not a state secret.”
A slow, brilliant smile spread across Ava’s face, the distraction gone, replaced by pure, luminous relief. She leaned in, kissing Beatrice again, who met her easily. Her hand settled on Ava’s hip, its warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of her sleep shorts, her touch tender.
Ava’s own hand came down to rest over Beatrice’s. She didn’t move it, just felt the solid weight, the gentle heat of Beatrice’s palm against her skin. The kiss deepened, slow and searching, and a thought unfurled in Ava’s mind: I want this hand everywhere.
“This door locks, you know…”, Ava murmured suggestively.
Beatrice pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. “Yes. And?”
Ava drew in a sharp, quiet breath. In response, she rolled her hips, a slow, subtle press into Beatrice’s thigh, where it rested against her- a movement so slight it was almost unconscious, a pure physical echo of the thought in her mind. But Beatrice felt it. The shift of pressure, the unspoken request. She understood the language of that movement perfectly.
A slow, knowing smile touched Beatrice’s lips, but her expression remained otherwise unimpressed. She raised one eyebrow, a picture of arch composure. “I am not sleeping with you in Camila’s guest room, Ava.”
The fantasy dissolved, replaced by the firm, gentle reality of Beatrice’s boundary. Ava’s face instantly bunched up in a comical, exaggerated pout. “Okay. Fine.”, she huffed, the word dripping with mock indignation, though the spark of understanding -and respect- flickered in her eyes. She collapsed back onto the pillow with a dramatic sigh, but her fingers laced through Beatrice’s, holding on tight.
“You’re like a teenage boy.” Beatrice leaned back in, aiming for her mouth, but Ava dodged the kiss, a playful glint in her eye.
“Well, I am a teenage girl.”, she retorted, grinning. “And it’s not my fault you’re all…” Her hands made a vague, appreciative gesture up and down Beatrice’s form, perched above her. “That.”
The next morning, they were all seated in Camila’s bright kitchen. The easy camaraderie of the night before lingered, but a new, thin thread of tension vibrated from Ava’s end of the table.
She fidgeted with her spoon, clinking it against her cereal bowl. Beatrice sat beside her, calmly sipping her black coffee, a portrait of serene composure.
“So…”, Ava began, her voice a little too loud for the room. She cleared her throat. “I, uh… I need to tell you guys something.”
All movement ceased. Camila paused with a piece of toast halfway to her mouth. Yasmine looked up from her phone. Lilith simply turned her head, her expression one of mild, analytical interest.
Ava’s eyes darted around the table, scanning their faces- curious, confused, patient. She looked to Beatrice for backup, for a sign. Beatrice took a slow sip of her coffee, set the mug down and said nothing. She just waited, her gaze calm and encouraging, leaving the floor entirely to Ava.
The silence stretched. Ava’s courage, so bold in the dark of their room, began to show a fracture. “Bea and I… we, uhm…” The words tangled on her tongue. Together? Seeing each other? A thing? None of them felt right.
Beatrice watched her struggle for another second. Then, with a simplicity that cut through Ava’s panic, she turned her head to address their friends directly.
“We’re dating.”, she stated. Her voice was clear, matter-of-fact, as if announcing a change in the weather.
There was no gasp, no dropped cutlery. Camila’s face broke into a slow, knowing smile. Yasmine’s eyes crinkled at the corners with warmth. Lilith gave a single, unsurprised nod.
It was Lilith who spoke, her tone dry. “Dating. As in, a couple?”
Beatrice turned her calm gaze on Lilith. “Yes.”
Ava’s head snapped towards her. Her eyes widened. She stared at Beatrice’s profile- the calm line of her jaw, the utter lack of hesitation. All of Ava’s internal struggle, her fear of being too much, of wanting too much, too early on, of defining them in a way that might make Beatrice bolt… and Beatrice had just said it. Like it was nothing. Like it was the easiest, most obvious truth in the world.
*
The break was a stolen season of sunlight and secrets. They went on timid, thrilling dates in town, holding hands under café tables. They spent hours talking, the words flowing easier than ever, and hours kissing, tangled on one of their single beds. The wanting was a constant, humming undercurrent, acknowledged in breathless pauses and flushed cheeks, but carefully contained by the ever-present risk of discovery.
It was towards the middle of the break, with the campus a ghost town, that Beatrice got daring. She’d checked the schedule. The Easter Vigil mass would command the attention of every nun and staff member for a solid four hours. The hallways would be deserted, silent as a tomb.
They were in Beatrice’s room. Ava was lying on her stomach on the bed, scrolling idly through her phone. Beatrice watched her for a long moment, the way the late afternoon light gilded the curve of her shoulder. Then, she moved.
She got up, drew the blinds closed, plunging the room into a soft, dim twilight. She put on a low, instrumental playlist from her phone. Then, with a quiet, determined focus that made Ava sit up and watch, Beatrice pushed the heavy wooden desk a few inches in front of her door, creating a solid barricade.
“What’s all this?”, Ava asked, her voice a whisper in the new quiet.
Beatrice turned. She was on the bed instantly, kneeling over Ava, and kissed her- short, deep, and full of intent. She pulled back just enough to speak.
“We have approximately four hours, before anyone will walk these halls. No one is expecting us anywhere.” Her dark eyes held Ava’s, blazing with a certainty, “We have these hours for ourselves.”
Ava’s mind, still catching up, processed the logistics, but not the implication. “Okay… so, more make-out time? Not that I’m complaining-”
Beatrice cocked an eyebrow, a slow, knowing smile playing on her lips. She didn’t say a word. She just looked at her, the heat in her gaze dropping to Ava’s mouth, then back up. Always with the non-verbal communication that one.
“Oh- oh…”, Ava breathed, the realisation dawning like a sunrise, warm and terrifying. “Now? You want to… now?”
Beatrice’s smile widened into something eager, beautiful, and she nodded.
Suddenly, Ava felt wildly exposed. She hadn’t planned for this. She’d imagined it in abstract, feverish daydreams, but the reality was here, with Beatrice looking at her like that. A wave of nervousness crested over her.
But then Beatrice kissed her again, and the nerves began to dissolve into anticipation. They kissed for a long time, slow and deep. Beatrice’s hands skated under the hem of Ava’s t-shirt, lifting it up and over her head. Her gaze dropped, taking in the sight, and a soft, wondrous smile touched her lips, before she recaptured Ava’s mouth. Encouraged, Ava mirrored her, fingers fumbling with Beatrice’s top, until it joined her own on the floor.
It was, as Beatrice had once described, a bit of an awkward mess. Ava was unsure of her touch, overthinking every movement. But she was with a person who talked her through it- not with clinical instructions, but with soft, breathless words.
“Here, like this.” A guiding hand.
“You’re perfect.” A whisper against her throat.
“Is this okay?” A pause, full of care.
Later, Ava would always remember this as her first time. Not the moment in a stranger’s villa, but this.
She would remember Beatrice’s infinite patience, the way she waited for every nod, listened for every sigh.
She would remember Beatrice’s encouraging smile, breaking through clouds of uncertainty.
She would remember the scent of Beatrice’s expensive perfume- on the pillow beneath her head, a scent that would forever be tied to the sixteen year old girl that moved in across from her in sophomore year.
She would remember the shared, stifled laughter, when they bumped noses, the desperate, mutual attempt to stay quiet and the breathless, silent laughter.
She would remember the exact pressure of Beatrice’s mouth on the pulse point at her wrist, a kiss meant to calm.
She would remember the way Beatrice’s hair fell around their faces like a curtain, creating a world that was only them.
She would remember the feeling of being truly, deeply known by a person she loved. She would remember, though she wouldn’t understand the full weight of it, until later, that she had been loved in return, right there in that quiet room.
She would remember all of it -every touch, every whisper, every hesitant smile- with a clarity that time could not blur.
Years later, no matter where life took her, or who else she was with, Ava Silva would never forget that Beatrice was her first.
Not just her first lover, but the benchmark against which all other loves would quietly, inevitably, be measured.
*
They spent weeks in a cocoon of impossible bliss. It felt like a world built just for them, fragile and perfect.
Then, the news came.
Ava’s parents, in a rare moment of attempted reconciliation, had decided to travel together to surprise their daughter for a week-long visit, before the break, planning to fly back to Toronto with her. The plane carrying them went down over the Alps. There were no survivors.
The aftermath was a blur of numb formalities and distant, adult voices. The decision was made for her: she would finish the year and move to Brazil, extracted from her life for a senior year in a foreign country, living with her godmother in São Paulo. A person she barely remembered.
Now, three days after the news, the storm of initial tears had passed, leaving a flat, hollow sea in its wake. Ava was lying in Beatrice’s embrace on her bed. Camila and Lilith were there too, a silent vigil on the rug.
“We could go get those chocolate-covered almonds you like.”, Camila offered softly, “Or those sour lollipops from the kiosk.”
Lilith nodded. “Or both.”
Beatrice, her arms locked around Ava’s unresponsive form, just gave them a small, grateful nod. They slipped out, leaving the two of them alone.
Beatrice kissed Ava’s forehead, a press of her lips against cool skin. She tightened her hold, wishing she could squeeze the pain out, absorb it into her own bones. There were no words that fit the crater that had opened in Ava’s life.
After a long silence, Ava spoke, her voice stripped of all inflection, aimed at the opposite wall. “I move to São Paulo in four days.”
Beatrice exhaled, the air leaving her lungs like a defeat. She nodded against Ava’s hair.
Ava sat up suddenly, pulling out of Beatrice’s embrace. She turned to look at her, and the raw, devastated hurt in her eyes was a physical burn in Beatrice’s chest.
“We need to talk about the break up.”, Ava stated, the words clinical, final.
The pain sharpened, twisting into something new and terrifying. “Ava-”
Ava interrupted, her gaze unwavering. “The coming days... it will be torture for us both, knowing exactly where it ends.” She hugged her knees to her chest, a small, defensive ball. “A clean cut is what’s best for everyone, right? Why not do it now?”
The words were a precise, devastating echo. Beatrice flinched, as if struck. Her own rationale for ending things with her London girlfriend, thrown back at her now, in this context, was a cruelty she had never intended.
“Ava…”, Beatrice tried again, her voice breaking. She sat up straighter, reaching for her hands. “Ava, I love you. We can figure something out. Long distance, visits, I’ll come to Brazil, if I have to… we can-”
The declaration, sudden and profound, seemed to shatter Ava’s fragile resolve instead of bolstering it. She shook her head, a frantic, denying motion. “No. You can’t say that now. You can’t-” Her voice cracked. “You don’t get to say that now.”
Beatrice blinked, tears she’d been holding back spilling over. She couldn’t find the right argument, the magic words to bridge the chasm of grief that was already pulling Ava into another hemisphere. All she could do was whisper, “Just breathe. We don’t have to decide anything right now. Just… breathe.” She pulled Ava back against her, holding on, as if the act of holding alone could stop the inevitable from happening.
*
The day before Ava left for Brazil felt like the world had been wrapped in muffling cotton. They were in Beatrice’s room, a familiar, painful echo of so many other afternoons. A movie played on Beatrice’s laptop, but neither saw it. They were just holding hands on the bed, fingers laced tightly, as if the pressure could fuse them together.
Ava paused the movie and closed the laptop lid. She took a deep, shuddering breath, steeling herself.
“Bea… I love you.”
Beatrice’s breath hitched. It was the first time Ava had said it back since Beatrice’s own desperate confession a few days ago, in the midst of shattering grief. The words were a gift and a blade, all at once.
“And because I love you…”, Ava continued, forcing her gaze to meet Beatrice’s, “I want what’s best for you. I know you’re the most brilliant person I’ve ever met. There’s a super slim chance anyone’s gonna compare.” She tried for a smile. It was a wobbly, heartbreaking thing.
Beatrice listened, her heart sinking with every word, already knowing the destination.
“But we have to be realistic. We’re seventeen. A long-distance relationship… it’s not something I can offer. Not now. Not while I’m still just… getting used to the fact that my parents are gone.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed on. “I can’t be your supporting girlfriend across an ocean. I can’t even support myself right now.”
“You don’t have to be anything for me.” Beatrice cut in, her own voice thick. She squeezed Ava’s hand. “I don’t need you to be anything. I just need you.” Beatrice didn’t care, how toxic she’d just sounded, it was her truth.
Ava gently pulled her hand free and pressed her fingertips to Beatrice’s lips, a soft, silencing touch. “Let me finish.” Her eyes were glistening, but resolute. “I can’t be over there, in a new country with practically a stranger, thinking about you every second. I need to… move on. And you need to move on. For the sake of both of us.” She took another sharp breath. “Tomorrow, when I leave… it will be the last time you see me. I won’t text. And while you’re free to… to rip open my heart, I would encourage you not to text me either. I’ll let the others know, when I land. They’ll give you updates. But we… we need distance. For the first few weeks, at least.”
The finality of it was chilling. Beatrice looked at her girlfriend, at the fierce, terrible love in Ava’s eyes that was choosing this brutal, surgical cut, and knew, she couldn’t fight it. Fighting would be selfish. Ava was carving out a chance to survive her own life, and she was asking Beatrice to let her.
Beatrice nodded slowly, the movement costing her everything. She didn’t trust her voice. Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against Ava’s, closing her eyes, memorising the feel of her skin, the scent of her, the shaky rhythm of her breath. It wasn’t a goodbye.
It was a silent surrender to Ava’s terms, a heartbreaking agreement to disappear from each other’s lives, all in the name of a love that was too young to survive the weight of the world that had just fallen on them.