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It’s not like it’s a regular thing, ten years strong, high school sweethearts except for all the obvious parts, but it slips between them from time to time, like, hey, are you over me yet?
It’s pretty clear neither of them know what to do the day the answer to that question becomes yes, but it hasn’t, half an album of switched pronouns and a secret curl of fingers around Selena’s wrist that no one thinks twice about, girls these days, and which boy is under Taylor’s skin this week? It’s funny, the things you can get away with once you broker a little misdirection.
Taylor’s a sprawl of angular limbs, hair frizzing at the ends, the ruffle a reminder of when both of them were much younger than they are now, braiding their hair together like daisy chains, kids who swapped butterfly kisses like they meant nothing. Maybe if they go to a few more events this year as each other’s dates someone might get a clue that there’s something more behind the easy slides of skin and hands; for now, they can get away with everything. This isn’t for anyone else: it never was.
When she smiles, Taylor’s lipstick flickers with shades of Selena’s, no longer neat, an exact match to the smudge that Selena can taste across her own mouth. It’s been a stretching night, Taylor’s mascara crumbing down her cheeks, her laugh pressed to Selena’s teeth, an eternal promise of: not yet, not yet, not yet.