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Alora didn’t know when it started, exactly. Maybe it had always been there - quiet, invisible, hiding in the cracks between everything else. She just hadn’t noticed it until now.
Now, it was everywhere.
In the changing rooms at football, when she couldn’t stop herself from glancing too long at the curve of another girl’s back, only to jerk her eyes away, heart hammering in guilt. In the bathroom mirror at school, where she fixed her ponytail while pretending not to watch the girl beside her apply lip gloss, pulse thudding when their arms accidentally brushed.
It was in her stomach, that heavy, twisting shame. In her chest, where her heart seemed to beat a little too fast around some girls and not at all around boys. It was in her dreams - fleeting and blurred, but still enough to wake her breathless.
She hated it.
She wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
She wasn’t supposed to notice things like that.
She wasn’t supposed to be… one of them.
She’d always thought she’d just know when she liked someone. Like how people describe it in books or stupid teen movies - heart racing, butterflies, some kind of click. But the only people who made her feel that way weren’t boys.
They were girls.
It wasn’t even always about attraction. Sometimes it was just the way her eyes lingered too long, or the way she felt warm when a pretty girl smiled at her. Or how, when she was supposed to be listening in class, she was instead thinking about the girl two rows up with the gold hoops and perfect skin and the kind of laugh that made Alora’s stomach ache.
And every time it happened, the shame hit her like a slap.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She knew better. That was the most messed up part.
She’d grown up in the most open, supportive house imaginable. Pedri and Ferran had never hid who they were. They’d always talked about love like it was the most normal, natural thing in the world. Some families had a mother and a father. Alora had two fathers. And it had never once bothered her. Not when kids at school asked weird questions. Not when she saw other people react with judgment. She’d always been proud.
So why did this feel so horrible?
Why did she feel horrible?
It was like this huge double-layered guilt: one part of her hated herself for maybe liking girls, and the other part hated herself for hating herself, because that made her a hypocrite.
How could she be disgusted by something she’d always defended?
She dropped onto her bed with a sigh, fingers digging into the blanket. It wasn’t fair. She should’ve been okay with it. She should’ve been able to look in the mirror and just accept it. But the second she got too close to saying it, even just in her head, something inside her recoiled. Like the word itself would make everything real.
Gay.
It echoed in her mind sometimes. Quiet, terrifying.
She couldn’t say it. Not yet. Not even alone.
Not even with the kind of parents she had.
Ferran would probably just pull her into a hug and say something dumb but sweet, like “You’re still you, and you’re perfect.” And Pedri… Pedri would probably already know. He’d give her that look, the soft one he always used when she was upset but trying to act fine, and say something that would make her cry in like five seconds flat.
And that made her feel even worse. Because she had a safe home. She had good parents. And if she couldn’t handle the idea of being into girls, then what did that say about her?
Alora pressed her palms against her eyes until her vision filled with sparks. Then she let out a quiet, frustrated noise and grabbed the small journal hidden behind her nightstand.
She flipped it open, past all the boring daily scribbles and into the pages she’d started when the feelings got too loud.
Her handwriting was messy, shaky in some places.
There’s nothing wrong with being gay.
So why does it feel so wrong when it’s me?
She traced the line with her finger.
Another paragraph:
I don’t even know if I am. I just… notice girls. All the time. And not like friends. Not like how I notice other people. It’s different. It’s scary.
Then:
It’s not fair. I’m supposed to be okay with this. I’ve always been okay with this. I’ve always loved people who are out and proud and strong and unbothered. I look up to them. So why can’t I be like that? Why can’t I be like my mamí and papa?
She stared at that last sentence for a long time.
A knock at the door made her jump. She slammed the journal shut and shoved it under her pillow just before Pedri peeked in.
“Todo bien?” he asked, his voice light. “You’ve been quiet all day.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly, too quickly.
Pedri leaned against the doorframe, not coming in, just watching her.
“You sure?”
Alora nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Just tired.”
He paused like he wanted to say more, but didn’t. “Okay. If you want tea or… I don’t know, someone to sit with, I’m here.”
“Thanks, mamí.”
He left the door open a crack, like he always did when he was worried about her. Alora stared at the ceiling, throat tight.
She wished she could tell him.
But saying it would make it real. And she wasn’t ready. Not when she didn’t even know what she was saying.
She still wanted to be normal. She still wanted this to go away. She still wanted the ache in her chest to disappear every time a pretty girl walked past and her heart tripped over itself.
She still didn’t want this to be her.
She didn’t expect anything to change, really.
But after Pedri left that night, after the silence crept back into her room and her journal burned like it was glowing under her pillow, something in her shifted. Just a little.
Like the tiniest crack in a window. Letting in a breeze she hadn’t wanted, but didn’t immediately try to shut out.
The next morning, she woke up still tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes, but the kind that hangs in your chest. But she didn’t snap at Mateo when he bounced into her room asking for cereal. She didn’t flinch when Pedri ruffled her hair in the hallway. She just existed. And that was something.
At school, she caught herself watching a girl again, not the first time, not even the tenth, and for once, she didn’t immediately hate herself for it.
She didn’t let the thoughts spiral. She didn’t dig her nails into her palm or snap the rubber band on her wrist.
She just… noticed.
The girl’s braid was thick and glossy. She had a ring on her pinky finger that shimmered in the sun. Her laugh was easy and light, like a song that had no idea it was being heard.
Alora looked, felt the flutter, and then turned away.
Her heart still beat too fast. But it wasn’t out of fear this time. Not entirely.
Later, at lunch, her best friend Dani was talking about some boy he had a crush on, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal. And it wasn’t. Not for him. Dani had come out last year, and everyone had just… kept going.
Alora had been proud of him, even jealous. She remembered thinking, That’s so cool. I wish I was that brave.
She hadn’t let herself ask why she wished that.
Now, she was starting to get it.
That evening, after dinner, she found herself sitting alone in the backyard. It was quiet, except for the soft sounds of Ferran and Mateo watching TV inside. The sky was getting darker, orange bleeding into purple. She sat with her knees pulled up to her chest, hoodie sleeves bunched in her fists.
Pedri came out after a while and didn’t say anything, just handed her a mug of warm tea and sat beside her on the step.
They sat like that for a few minutes, quiet, sipping.
Then Pedri spoke, so softly it almost didn’t register.
“I didn’t figure things out until I was older than you, sabes.”
Alora blinked, staring at the grass.
He didn’t go on. He didn’t push. He just let the sentence hang there, weightless but heavy.
And she didn’t respond. Not with words.
But after a long moment, she leaned against his side.
Not all the way, not dramatically, just enough to touch.
Just enough to mean: I heard you.
And thank you.
That night, she opened her journal again.
This time, her handwriting was steadier.
I think I’m okay with not knowing yet. But I also think… maybe it’s not as scary as I thought. Maybe it’s not bad. Just new.
She drew a little heart next to the sentence. Small. Barely visible.
And for the first time, she didn’t rip the page out.
It was unusually calm in the house for a Saturday morning.
Pedri and Mateo had left early for the ballet studio, Mateo chattering away in his tights and warm-up jumper, Pedri yawning into his travel mug and trying to keep up. Alora had passed on going, claiming she had homework, which wasn’t a lie, but also not the reason.
Now it was just her and Ferran, sitting in the kitchen. The windows were open to the early sun, and the soft hiss of the kettle was the only sound between them.
Ferran was scrolling on his phone, his hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, his socked feet resting against the leg of the chair across from him. Alora sat with one leg tucked under the other, stirring sugar into her tea, not drinking it yet.
“D’you think Mateo’s gonna stick with ballet?” she asked eventually.
Ferran glanced up. “Yeah. I think he actually loves it. He won’t shut up about the spring show.”
Alora nodded, then looked back down at her spoon. “Even if it’s, like… not what most boys do?”
Ferran shrugged. “Who cares what most boys do?”
“Some boys do,” she said quietly. “Other kids.”
He folded the paper and set it aside. “Then we raise him to not give a shit. That’s the deal, right? You love what you love, and anyone who’s weird about it can get out of the way.”
She gave him a look, not annoyed, not amused either, just something in between.
“It wasn’t always that easy for you though,” she said.
That surprised him. He leaned back slightly, taking a second before responding. “No,” he admitted. “Wasn’t. Took me a while to get there.”
Alora picked at the edge of her tea bag string. “Can I ask something kind of… I don’t know. Personal?”
Ferran raised an eyebrow, curious now. “Sure.”
She didn’t look up. “When did you know you were… you know.”
He blinked. “Gay?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause, like he was recalibrating.
“You’ve never asked me that before.”
“I was just thinking about it,” she said, tone clipped. “You don’t have to answer.”
“No, no. It’s fine.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I think I knew way before I really let myself know. Like, looking back, it’s obvious. But when I was a teenager, I just kept pushing it down. Telling myself it was a phase. Or that I’d grow out of it.”
Alora pressed her thumb hard into the handle of her mug. “And did you ever wish you could?”
He didn’t answer right away.
“Yeah,” he said eventually. “Back then, yeah. Not because I thought it was wrong, just because it felt harder. Like I was already trying to prove myself in football, and this would be another reason for people to doubt me. I didn’t want to deal with that.”
She was quiet for a beat.
“And now?”
“Now I wouldn’t change it. Not even a little.”
Alora nodded again, too fast. “Right.”
Ferran studied her, a little more closely this time. “Is this for a school thing?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
Silence again.
Then, softer: “Why do you ask?”
Alora didn’t flinch. But she also didn’t meet his eyes.
“I was just curious,” she said. “You and Mamí always talk about it like it’s easy. Like it was this happy thing. And I wondered if it ever… wasn’t.”
“It wasn’t,” Ferran said gently. “Not at first.”
She nodded, her throat tight.
Ferran leaned forward a little. “It doesn’t have to be easy to be good. You know that, right?”
Alora swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
He didn’t ask if it was about her. And she didn’t offer anything else.
But something passed between them anyway, a quiet understanding stitched between the words they didn’t say.
She stood a few minutes later, rinsing her mug without looking up.
“I’m gonna do some homework before they get back.”
“Alright,” Ferran said. “You want me to make lunch in a bit?”
She hesitated. “Yeah. If you’re here.”
“I’m always here, Alora.”
She nodded again, this time more like thanks.
And then she was gone, the stairs creaking softly behind her.
The house was finally still.
Down the hall, Mateo had passed out mid-bedtime story, his star nightlight casting soft shapes on the walls. Alora had gone quiet hours ago, her door shut but not all the way, like always.
In their room, the lamp on Pedri’s side of the bed glowed a soft amber. Ferran was already tucked under the duvet, shirtless, hair still damp from his shower. Pedri moved slower, tugging on one of Ferran’s old hoodies before crawling into bed beside him.
As soon as Pedri slid under the blanket, Ferran opened his arm like a reflex. Pedri curled into his side without hesitation, cheek pressed to his bare chest, fingers sliding over the dip of Ferran’s waist.
“You smell good,” Pedri mumbled.
“Coconut shampoo,” Ferran said. “Mateo insisted.”
Pedri snorted. “Of course he did.”
They laid there like that for a while. Pedri’s hand rose and fell with Ferran’s breathing, Ferran’s fingers tracing slow circles into the curve of Pedri’s hip. It was quiet, the kind of quiet they didn’t get often, and Ferran let it stretch before breaking it.
“She asked me about being gay today,” he said quietly.
Pedri blinked, shifting just enough to look up. “Alora?”
“Yeah.”
Pedri’s brows pulled together. “What did she say?”
“She asked when I knew. And if I ever… wished I wasn’t.”
Pedri let out a breath. “Dios.”
“I know,” Ferran said softly, thumb brushing over Pedri’s shoulder. “She didn’t say anything else, but she was being weird. Guarded.”
“I knew something was up,” Pedri said. “Earlier, when you were with Mateo, she came outside. Didn’t talk, just sat next to me. I told her I didn’t figure myself out until later, and she didn’t even respond. Just leaned into me a little.”
Ferran looked down at him, brows creased. “So you think she’s…”
“I don’t know,” Pedri murmured. “But I think she’s scared. And confused. And trying really hard not to be.”
Ferran nodded slowly. “I didn’t think she’d be afraid. Not with us.”
“She’s not afraid of us,” Pedri said, gently. “She’s afraid of what it means for her. You can grow up in the most loving home in the world and still hate your own reflection sometimes.”
That hit Ferran a little too real. He kissed Pedri’s forehead. “You always say things better than me.”
Pedri smiled against his chest. “No, you just get too serious and forget I already know everything you’re feeling.”
Ferran chuckled, then nudged Pedri’s chin up with his knuckles. “She’ll be okay though, right?”
Pedri leaned in, kissed him - slow, soft, familiar. “She’s got us,” he said. “So yeah. She will.”
Ferran hummed. “Do we wait? Or should one of us talk to her?”
Pedri shook his head. “We wait. She’ll come to us when she’s ready.”
Ferran nodded again, quiet for a moment. Then, with a grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, he said, “You know, you still look hot when you’re all ‘parent mode’ like that.”
Pedri groaned. “Porfa. I’m wearing your hoodie from 2018 and I haven’t shaved in two days.”
“Exactly,” Ferran said, smirking. “That’s prime husband material.”
Pedri rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “You’re such a simp.”
“Only for you.”
They kissed again - less soft this time, a little more lingering, Ferran’s hand sliding up under the hem of the hoodie just to rest warmly on Pedri’s waist.
Eventually, Pedri settled back down against his chest, content.
They lay in the hush of their room, their bodies tangled under the blankets, their thoughts heavy but hearts steady.
Whatever Alora was figuring out, they’d be there. Together. Always.
- sofía ✎ᝰ.