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“Her love is in your head”
Trinity is certain that the love she sees reflected in Yolanda's eyes is something her own mind created as a slow form of torture.
Because, wow, she’s not that naive. There’s no world in which Yolanda Garcia wants her for more than a casual fling.
That’s how it’s supposed to be, and she came to terms with it sometime between the second and third month.
But, damn, sometimes, on days when one of them is more sensitive and work drags through their weary bodies, Trinity swears she catches small glimpses of something bordering on love reflected in Yolanda's pupils.
When the only sounds filling the rooms are the moans they share, the compliments carry more intensity, and the hands exploring her body touch her with a gentle yet firm dexterity.
There are also those little post‑sex moments, when their bodies are sweaty but still pressed together, when Yolanda's firm hands cradle her nape in a soft caress, and her fingers fit into the small points of tension in her body.
And the days when nothing happens, when they both become just a tangle of arms and legs intertwined over covered bodies, and exhaustion overcomes them, and morning creeps in as Trinity wakes up in Yolanda's arms and her irises seem even deeper, filling with something stupidly similar to love.
But it’s all nonsense, because her love is only in Trinity’s head.
Yolanda Garcia doesn’t love her.
No.
She would never do that.
“You lost your earrings in her bed; You couldn’t tell her that you lost ’em; ’Cause you’re scared and you’re not talking.”
Trinity realized she lost one of her favorite earrings exactly three days ago. She searched the entire apartment before concluding that she lost it in her bed.
The two argued on the last night they spent together, a week ago, about Yolanda’s bed, which led to devastating sex and her slipping away in the middle of the night after making sure the woman was asleep enough.
She’s a coward. Avoiding Garcia in the emergency room corridors has been easy—easier than admitting she lost it.
It was a stupid fight, something idiotic about what they would order for dinner, that quickly escalated into something about her avoiding the casual topic, and that’s fine, she really was doing it.
Four months sharing a bed and moments that definitely don’t fit into the “casual relationship” package scare her, because she still listens to her own head and knows that bringing it up means the end of everything, because Yolanda doesn’t want her like that.
Yolanda likes the casualness with benefits, and Trinity won’t argue about it, so interrupting conversations with hot kisses and letting their bodies guide them to bed is, yes, the most reasonable option. So.
Trinity won’t admit to Yolanda that she lost it; she won’t ask about the damn earrings when she can’t even look at her.
“’Cause you’re scared and you’re not talking; So you think of what to say; Then save it for another day.”
She’s a complete idiot for letting her own fear control her. She can’t find the courage to talk to Yolanda again; her dread has seeped into her skin, corrupting her.
Making her think about every word she’s going to say, consuming her completely. And when she realizes it, she’s already saved it all for another day, inevitably postponing as if that would make Yolanda show up at her door.
It doesn’t happen, obviously not, because Yolanda doesn’t look for her. She would never do that. Trinity isn’t someone people come back for.
So she tries to move on, swallowing every word, breathing every day, sinking into her own memories, and not allowing herself to remember that somewhere in Yolanda’s expensive mattress, there’s her lost and forgotten earring.
Just like the feelings her head made her believe existed in the surgeon’s eyes.
“’Cause you just never had the heart; Now they just drift further apart; From you, oh; From you, oh.”
Trinity Santos considers herself the perfect example of cowardice. Her name could easily sit next to the word’s definition, but she’s learning fast that no one judges a coward more harshly for their actions than the coward themselves.
She held back her frustrations as long as she could, burying them along with her laments, but like anything compartmentalized under more pressure than it can handle, she exploded.
And was forced to watch everything drift away. From her. Only from her.
There was nothing left. After two weeks of running, the escape routes became unnecessary, because Yolanda’s eyes stopped searching for hers, and their bodies that once danced around each other didn’t even come close to the same path anymore.
Because her cowardice sank her.
(“From you, oh”) extra, extra, read all about it; Yolanda is in her feelings and she can’t get out of it (from you)”
It’s one of those rare days of the month when Trinity was lucky enough to get more than one consecutive day off. When the schedule came out at the end of last month, relief and happiness flooded her body. Three weeks ago, days off like that meant sharing the apartment with Yolanda.
With an almost sacred pre‑established routine based on twelve hours of collective rest in each other’s arms, followed by mind‑blowing sex that somehow turned soft and calm by the start of the second day, until night fell and they were forced to untangle their own bodies to resume their back‑to‑back shifts again.
But she and Yolanda hadn’t existed for three long weeks, because she had run away, and Yolanda wouldn’t waste her time chasing after her.
So maybe her mind was torturing her, making her hallucinate, because somehow, standing at the entrance to her apartment, there she was, in the flesh.
Yolanda Garcia, the woman Trinity Santos swore she knew like the back of her hand—and maybe she really did—every surface of Garcia’s body, every expression her face was capable of. She was right there in front of her, waiting.
Yolanda had a tired expression, slumped shoulders, and the eyes Trinity had learned to swim in were dull in a way she never thought she’d witness. And in the palm of her hand, there it was: the earring from that last night, the needle in the haystack.
“Can I come in? I have something of yours and words you need to hear.”
Trinity wouldn’t deny her, so the space between the door and the room was yielded, and there they were, face to face, just like two weeks ago. The difference now was that there was no longer that certainty that any dialogue clearly needing to happen could be postponed with wet lips and shared sweat.
“I talk, you listen. Why the hell have you been avoiding me for three weeks? What the hell did I do to make you sneak out of my damn bed in the middle of the night? Is this what I deserve, why, Trinity?”
With each question, the room and the space between them grew smaller, because that’s how it was, always had been: one always drawn toward the other like magnets unable to repel.
“Did my love scare you that much?” Wait, what? “What? What do you mean, my love?”
“You’re gonna deny its existence, damn it? This shit has been overflowing from me and invading every part of you during every minute we shared the same room. You, me… I thought it was reciprocated.”
“No, I didn’t…” What?
The space opened between them again with her own denial and shattered at the same time as her own realization hit.
“No, damn it! How do you love me, Yolanda? Because, wow, if this is real, I… It means I’ve been ignoring you for three weeks for nothing. It means I’ve been sinking into my own misery for no reason. I’m not someone people love back.”
Fear, hurt, and regret in every syllable leaving her mouth.
And the hands on her face—hands she had traced and explored, hands that had explore and tracede her—and their eyes meet and stay, linger and overflow. And Trinity sees in every edge the love she swore she had imagined.
“You are. Loving you has been so easy, because every time I touch you, I spread my love for you across your own body. Your name leaves my mouth with a softness no other name has ever had, and I know you can see it, Trin, in every corner of my eyes—what I feel for you.”
Letting her mouth yield to Yolanda’s is easy. She doesn’t need to think about anything, because every atom of her body knows it can surrender to Yolanda’s body, because it will be received and welcomed.
Yolanda has feelings for her and isn’t afraid to talk about them, and now Trinity isn’t afraid to talk about hers, because she can love every part of Yolanda with pure devotion, without fear, without dread, because Yolanda Garcia has overflowed for her in the same way she’s seen herself overflow.
“Can’t get out of it; Okay, well, I hope you like my mixtape.”
Trinity traces each mole on Yolanda’s back like a constellation, until her hands are pinned above her head amid rivers by the woman she loves. Oh, it’s so good to say that: she loves. Trinity Santos loves Yolanda Garcia and is loved back with the same intensity. It almost seems like a lie.
But it’s not, because look where they are: tangled sheets over naked bodies, Yolanda’s weight hovering over hers like a complement to her own form, and they lose themselves, again and again and repeatedly, one on top of the other, one inside the other, until it’s possible to confuse where one begins and the other ends.
Because they dance not as a pair, but as if sharing the same body, like someone exploring their own skin and reshaping it—not because they need to fit, but for the simple act of adding to each other.
Yolanda and Trinity are complete without one another, but when they come together, they become more, they overflow, in a way that one fits into the other without suppressing their own essences.
A new song starts playing as they both sink into each other again.