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Sahar and I have history.
We used to be pretty good friends. We’d speak every single day, except no vocal chords were ever exerted. It was all buried inside of text messages and seesawing Instagram memes. In the school corridors it was shy smiles and guarded glances. Not a word to be spoken.
We ran in different friend groups. The popular kids and the alternative crowd. At least, that’s what I told myself was the reason for it; the reason for keeping her at arm's-length back then.
Then I got a boyfriend and arm’s-length turned into a ten foot barge pole.
Things got particularly awkward after she called me out in front of everyone during that game of truth or dare on the Paris trip.
“Imogen got a boyfriend last year and then stopped texting me.”
I was caught off guard and fumbled an excuse but… it was true. I don’t really know why I did that. Stop texting her, I mean. I guess it’s easier to leave some things unanswered when you're busy pretending everything’s fine. But I don’t want to pretend any more.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and reflecting lately; embarking on a journey of self discovery. It started with dumping Ben. Yeah, okay, I probably shouldn’t have done it in the middle of a fancy French restaurant with the eyes of our friends and classmates and teachers on us. However, it was that moment – or culmination of moments – that jump started my journey.
When a handful of classmates stood up for me.
When Mr Ajayi shut Ben up.
When Nick and Charlie rushed to comfort me.
When I was stood in that bathroom with tears in my eyes and asked for what my body needed.
When my need was met without hesitation or condition; just love and understanding.
That meant everything to me. So I started being more honest – maybe too honest, at times – and I felt so free.
The Paris Squad took me in. I found myself feeling instantly at ease with this quirky group of queers… and Tao. They enjoyed me for me; my innocent curiosity, my bold fashion sense, my bubbly dramatics, my heart on my sleeve.
I didn't need to make sure I was acting cool enough, or dressing pretty enough, or being desirable enough. And this amazing thing happened when I didn't need to put on that pretence anymore – I could breathe. I was safe and held and understood. It freed up space in my soul to really connect with myself. No more holding back and fitting into a mould.
I picked out a prom dress based on how I felt in it, not how I thought others would perceive me in it. I felt so good and had so much fucking fun that night.
Then seeing Sahar exude the most badass confidence ever up on that stage with her long dark hair flowing over her shoulders and brushing against her wrist as she strummed, her deep brown eyes glittering in the lights, matching her sparkly dress... I realised that she knows exactly who she is.
I want that.
So for the first time, I asked myself, who are you really, Imogen Heaney?
I’m still not completely certain, but what I do know is that when I stared up at Sahar rocking out on stage at prom, another puzzle piece clicked into place.
When she came out to me as bisexual at the Lambert art exhibition. She just… did it. Like it was no big deal. Because it's not, really, is it? Like, yes it is, but it’s also not? Hearing her so effortlessly say those words… that flicked some sort of switch inside my psyche that I hadn’t realised was turned off.
Who knew self discovery had so many layers? But Sahar simply existing as her true self helped me find the courage to do the same.
That summer, Sahar and I started texting again. We only hung out in person whilst the rest of the Paris Squad were around, but it was fun. We were Sahar and Imogen again, but more. Better.
And it kept getting better, too.
When we went to the beach, our dry banter made it out of texts and into the real world. I was on a high that whole day.
When we picked up our GCSE results together, we basked in the relief and joy of each others’ accomplishments.
When we went to the zoo, our comfort around each other shifted into physical touch; a subtle knee pressed up against a thigh, a hand on a shoulder as we leaned in for a selfie.
That takes us to today - Sahar’s Halloween party.
I’ll admit that I’m feeling a little highly strung right now. I spent fucking hours sat at my vanity getting my hair and makeup just right to be the best Barbie that ever partied, only to jab myself in the eye with my mascara wand at the last hurdle and ruin the meticulous artistry on one side of my face.
I salvaged it – obviously, else I wouldn’t have even turned up to the party – and I marched straight to the kitchen in search of some alcohol.
And honestly? Thank fuck I’m already multiple drinks in by the time Nick arrives dressed as Captain America and not Ken like we had discussed, else I would be having another mascara mishap, except this time induced by tantrum tears.
I drown my over-dramatic disappointment with another drink (or three) until Nick finds me slumped over the armrest of the sofa and takes pity on me, announcing that he’s going to get me a glass of water.
He doesn’t return, but Dracula does.
“Here, drink this.” A glass of water appears in my eyeline, but my vision focuses on the hand holding it. My eyes wander to the black lace wrist cuff highlighting golden skin, a delicate purple ribbon emphasising a curvy waistline, silky locks cascading around an enchanting chest, an oversized gothic collar perfectly framing that pretty face.
Huh. Do I have the hots for vampires? I really should watch Twilight someday.
I don’t speak or even smile, but I do eventually reach out and take the water, chugging it in one go.
“Jeez, Imogen. You’re a state. Let’s sort you out.” Dracula’s long fingers wrap around my forearms and I get pulled up to my feet. When I stumble, an arm wraps around my waist to keep me steady. I’m guided into the hallway, up the stairs, to the left, through a white door, until I’m laying on my back in a pillowy bed. The bedside light clicks on, another glass of water appears, and Dracula has one foot out the door before I finally find my voice.
“Don’t leave,” I whimper.
My eyes are closed to stop the room from spinning. I have no idea what is happening in the following silence. Until I feel the bed dip down beside me and then the comforting heat of an arm pressed alongside mine. It feels safe – I feel safe – and I can relax.
I’m not sure how long I drift off for, but when I flutter open my eyes, Sahar is there.
She never left.
Her vampire cape has been discarded on the floor and she’s scrolling on her phone. When she notices I’m awake, she grins and sets her phone aside. “Is Barbie girl ready to party again?”
I emit a half laugh, half groan in lieu of an actual answer as I slump onto my side. She mirrors my position, her face now suddenly so close and still displaying that teasing grin of hers that I’ve come to adore.
I adore many things about Sahar actually. Her inspiring sense of self, her quick wit, her love of music and history, her kindness, her calm and reasonable nature.
As we lay face to face in our own little bubble, I realise my adoration is… more than that. It’s a pull, a longing, an ache. It’s not just about being inspired by Sahar. It’s about wanting her. All of her.
Remember how I’ve been listening to what my body needs lately? Well, right now everything inside me is telling me to reach out to Sahar; to touch her and… kiss her.
That’s when I suddenly realise that this feeling isn’t just adoration, it’s attraction. It’s not vampires I’m into, it’s Sahar.
Guess I don’t need to watch Twilight anymore.
I become aware of heat flushing across my face, my breath turning shallow, my heart hammering in my chest. I almost fall victim to that old voice in the back of my head, questioning if I’m just doing this for attention, like my whole personality was before. But I’ve spent months peeling back the layers, stripping away the pretenses, letting myself be real. So I take a long, deep breath, and focus on the truth – my truth.
There, I can see that it’s not a red warning sign sounding off inside my brain; it’s a glowing pink heart surrounded by soft, swirling sparkles. It’s calm and reassuring, reminding me to just be. To trust myself. To do what feels right.
And the idea of kissing Sahar feels right.
My gaze is intense and questioning. It drops to her lips before darting back to her eyes. It’s an invitation, one I’m not brave enough to voice out loud. But Sahar doesn’t seem scared. Her eyes soften, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, and it’s all I need to find the confidence to keep going. Keep trusting.
I pick my hand up from between us and gently cup her jaw. She doesn’t pull away. In fact, she shifts closer.
She opens her mouth to speak and I freeze, afraid that any words will pierce the air and inevitably burst our delicate bubble. She’s still not scared though. She never is. And I’m so thankful and relieved when her words not only add another layer of protection to our bubble, but also give us permission to float away to a higher realm.
“Can I kiss you?” She breathes.
Yes. Oh my god, yes.
My eyes light up and I’m practically panting at just the thought of kissing her. I’m shy yet so fucking sure as I stroke my thumb along her cheek tenderly. I want to stay in this moment forever, watch her every miniscule movement, touch every inch of her soul, but I can’t hold back any longer. I push forward and press my lips to hers.
It’s tentative at first, testing the waters of this surreal moment. We pull away to search each other's eyes, a silent check in. When both our faces break out in massive smiles, we let the adrenaline kick us up a notch.
She grabs hold of my hips and surges forward, tilting me onto my back and parting her lips against mine. I rake my hands through her hair and gently tug her closer. She pulls away for a brief second to adjust herself, but it’s a second too long, and I crane forward, chasing her lips. She giggles and I echo her joy. I keep one hand in her hair and slowly move the other down to clutch at her bicep. She cocks her head and presses impossibly deeper. I skirt my fingers under the hem of her sleeve. When we finally come up for air, I scrunch up my face at her in exhilaration and she stares at me in awe.
We do end up rejoining the party, but we stay glued to each other all night. I pull her up to dance with me, spinning her around as she rolls her eyes and laughs. I scream Billie Eilish lyrics into an invisible microphone, she joins in for the chorus. I lace our fingers together and throw our hands up to the sky, she holds on for the ride. She drapes an arm over my shoulders as we take a break to hydrate and socialise, and it all feels so right.
Eventually, it’s just the two of us again, curled into each other on the sofa, the stillness of an empty house settling over us. We’re sheltered in our bubble that we’ve been bouncing around in and testing the edges of all night.
Sahar is the one to break the silence between us again, her voice quiet and careful. “You know… You’re the reason I realised I was bi in the first place.”
My head shoots up from her shoulder, eyebrows knitting together as I process her words. “Wait… what?”
Her laugh is gentle, laced with nervousness. “Yeah, well... when we stopped talking last year, I really missed you and… it got me thinking about who I wanted to be, and who I wanted to… love.”
I stare at her, the weight of her confession sinking in, warm and dizzying and more than I know what to do with.
This whole time, I thought Sahar was the one helping me find my way, helping me figure myself out. It never even crossed my mind that I could have been that person for her too. That maybe we were each other’s turning points, orbiting the same journey in our own separate ways.
Until now.