I didn't tell Kellie where we were going.
I just showed up outside her gate that morning, dressed in soft pastels, my hair down, a small smile pulling at my lips.
She blinked when she opened the door. "Rose?"
"Come with me," I said.
She didn't ask questions. Just grabbed her jacket and followed.
We took the early train out of the city, heading toward the coast.
I'd found a quiet little place online an old seaside town where the air smelled like salt and the shops were run by people who didn't look at you twice. It was the kind of place where names didn't matter, and stares didn't follow.
When we arrived, the clouds had parted. The sky was soft and blue, and the sea shimmered like someone had poured silver into it.
Kellie stood beside me on the pier, wind brushing her red hair across her face.
"You okay?" she asked.
I nodded slowly. "I needed a place where I could just… breathe. Without being someone. Without worrying about my parents, or school, or how people look at us."
Kellie's eyes softened. She reached over and took my hand.
"You don't have to be anyone here," she said. "Just mine."
We wandered for hours down quiet streets, through secondhand bookstores and cat cafés, eating fishballs and matcha ice cream.
Kellie made me laugh more than I had in weeks. Real laughter. The kind that fills your lungs like fresh air. The kind that heals things.
At one point, we found a little dock behind a tea shop, half-hidden from the street. We sat on the edge, our feet dangling above the still water, the town silent around us.
"This place feels like it's holding its breath," I said.
Kellie glanced at me. "So are you."
I looked down at our joined hands.
"I'm still scared," I admitted.
"Of them?"
"Of everything. What they'll say. What I'll lose."
"You won't lose me."
I looked at her.
And when she leaned in and kissed me soft and slow, the kind of kiss that wasn't asking for anything but presence I believed her.
For the first time, I believed it fully.
Later that evening, we watched the sun sink into the sea.
I rested my head on her shoulder. Her jacket smelled like lavender and rain.
"I want this," I whispered.
She looked at me. "This?"
"Us. Without hiding."
Kellie squeezed my hand. "Then let's stop hiding."
The train ride back was quiet. Peaceful. And when we reached the edge of our city, we didn't let go of each other.
Not even when we stepped off the platform.
Not even when people looked.