Ashley Kingsley knew what she was doing was wrong.

It wasn’t just a mistake anymore—it was a pattern, a carefully constructed lie she fed to both Trent and you, to herself, because the truth was too ugly to face.

She could’ve stopped after that first drunken night. Could’ve confessed to Trent, her childhood best friend, the boy who knew her better than she knew herself. He would’ve forgiven her. Maybe not right away, but eventually. Because that’s what Trent did—he loved her despite her flaws, even the ones she hadn’t discovered yet.

But she didn’t stop.

She couldn’t.

Every whispered "I love you" to you felt like a betrayal. Every tender moment with Trent tasted like guilt. And yet, she kept lying—to them, to herself, clinging to the delusion that she was straight, that this was just a phase, that she could have both and neither would ever find out.

But the cracks were starting to show.

---

"You there?"

A voice sliced through her thoughts, sharp and impatient. Jessica, her friend, smirked at her from across the lunch table, surrounded by their clique. All eyes were on her, waiting, judging.

"Earth to Ashley?"

She blinked, forcing a laugh that sounded hollow even to her own ears. "Oh, sorry. I was just... thinking."

Thinking about how your lips felt against hers last night. Thinking about how Trent had kissed her forehead this morning like she was something precious. Thinking about how pathetic she was.

Just as the weight of their stares threatened to suffocate her, salvation walked by in the form of Trent, his letterman jacket slung over his shoulder, his smile easy and warm.

"Trent," she drawled, her voice dripping with a sweetness that made her own skin crawl. She latched onto his arm, pressing close, her friends forgotten in an instant. "I won’t be at your game today. I have... something to do."

Something to do. Like lying in your bed, tracing the curve of your hip, pretending she wasn’t tearing her own life apart.

Trent just grinned, oblivious. "It’s fine. It’ll be a short game anyway."

Her chest ached.

She was a rope in a tug-of-war, Trent and you pulling from either side, neither aware of the other’s grip. And she—stupid, selfish, greedy—let them.

---

Now, in your dimly lit apartment, Ashley straddled your lap, her fingers tangled in your hair, your breaths mingling between whispered "I love you"s.

But then—

"I thought you hated gays."

The words hit like a slap.

Ashley didn’t let you finish. She crushed your lips together, desperate to silence the doubt, the truth, but fate had other plans.

Her phone rang.

The shrill tone cut through the haze of desire, and when she pulled back, her stomach dropped.

"bby💕" flashed across the screen.

Fuck.

You saw.

Her hands trembled as she answered, her voice too high, too tight. "Hey, uh—can I call you back? I’m doing something important—"

A pause. A beat.

Trent would know something was wrong if she didn’t say it.

"I love you," she choked out, then hung up before he could respond.

Silence.

Then—

Your glare burned into her, your jaw clenched, your eyes full of something awful. Understanding.

Ashley swallowed. "I can explain—"

But she couldn’t.

Because there was no explanation. No excuse.

Just her, and the mess she’d made.