Shriya shut the apartment door behind them and gently set MK's bag on the couch. MK never carried much—wallet, phone, lip gloss—but Shriya always noticed the weight of her own absence of a bag. She never needed one. A slim, hidden pocket sewn discreetly into the waistband of her outfit held everything she actually used: a compact weapon, a folded ID, a spare key. She'd once joked that she carried half a war in that tiny slit of fabric. She placed MK's bag down like it was fragile, then turned to face her girlfriend.
"MK… do you regret it?" Shriya asked quietly. "Letting the world know about us, I mean."
The question hung between them like a held breath.
MK stood at the threshold between the living room and the hallway, frozen, the echo of her own impulse still rattling in her bones. She had said it—my girlfriend—with half the Starlight elites watching. Executives, celebrities. The kind of people whose whispers could turn into storms.
But what scared her wasn't them.
"No," MK said finally, voice soft but steady. "Not really. I love you too much to care what they think."
"Then why do you look like the ground is falling away under your feet?" Shriya stepped closer. Her voice wasn't accusing; it was an anchor.
MK swallowed. "I'm sorry, Shrii. It's just… it's just—"
Shriya reached for her, arms circling her waist, pulling her gently forward as if coaxing words out of her chest. "Hey. It's me. Talk to me."
MK's breathing hitched. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Shriya's shoulder. "It's not the world I'm afraid of. It's my mom."
Shriya stiffened slightly—not in judgment, but in understanding. "You think she'll be upset?"
"I think she'll be heartbroken," MK whispered. "She's worked so hard, all her life. Neighbors talk. Relatives judge. I grew up watching her swallow every insult thrown at her because she had no one to defend her. And now… I don't want her to suffer because of me. Because I'm different."
Shriya exhaled slowly, stroking MK's back. "It's the twenty-first century, MK. Parents surprise us sometimes. Maybe she'll accept it."
"I don't know," MK said. "I've never told her. Anyone, really."
Shriya pulled back just enough to look into her eyes. "When did you know?"
"I think I always knew," MK said, voice dropping to a small, almost childlike tone. "But I admitted it to myself at nineteen. And I still tried to be what everyone expected. I married Mike, because he was my best friend and I thought—maybe if I live the life everyone approves of, I'll escape disappointing her."
"MK…" Shriya's voice was a whisper of heartbreak.
MK shook her head. "I didn't want her to blame herself. She raised me alone. No father. No male figure. She'll think that's why I turned out this way. And I don't know how to tell her that I'm scared of hurting her."
Shriya cupped her face. "MK… look at me. Do you think if you grew up with a father, you'd be attracted to men instead?"
"I don't know," MK said honestly. "Maybe I would've wanted a family, the whole normal picture. Or maybe… maybe this is who I've always been."
Shriya's expression sharpened, a quiet seriousness cutting through her gentle façade. "MK. Are you ashamed of liking women?"
MK froze.
The question hit something raw inside her. She stepped out of Shriya's arms and walked toward the window, staring out at the night city—lights flickering like tiny, judging eyes. The silence that followed wasn't empty; it was thick with unspoken truths.
Shriya followed her slowly, stopping behind her like she was approaching a frightened animal. She placed her hands lightly on MK's shoulders and turned her gently around.
"MK," she said softly. "Don't answer for me. Don't say what you think I want to hear. I want the truth. All of it. Speak your fears out loud."
Her voice trembled at the edges—Shriya knew the truth would hurt, but she wanted it anyway.
MK's eyes filled instantly. Hot tears spilled before she could blink them away.
"You want the truth?" MK whispered. Her voice cracked like glass. "Yes, Shrii. I'm ashamed."
The words burst out of her like she'd been holding them behind her ribs for years.
"I'm ashamed I turned out different. I'm ashamed of wanting something the world laughs at. I've wished a thousand times I was normal. That I could look at a man and feel something. That I'd want kids, like other women do."
Her breath hitched, turning into small, helpless sobs.
"But I don't. I don't even like kids. I don't want them. And every time someone mentions grandchildren I feel this… this crushing guilt." She pressed a trembling hand against her chest. "I want to be brave, but Shrii… I care too much. About what people say. What they think. I pretend I don't, but I do. And I hate myself for it."
The confession tore out of her in pieces.
"I'm scared every single day," MK whispered. "And because I know people won't understand, I just… swallow everything. Smile like nothing hurts. Break when I'm alone. I can't tell anyone. Not even her. How do I look into her eyes and say, 'Mom, I'll never give you grandchildren'?"
Her legs gave out slightly, and Shriya caught her mid-fall, arms wrapping around her firmly.
MK pressed her face against Shriya's chest and cried—full, trembling sobs, the kind of grief that came from years of silence.
Shriya held her like she was holding shattered glass, careful but unyielding. She closed her eyes, absorbing the storm shaking MK's body.
Inside, her mind was racing.
She doesn't like kids. Is this trauma? Did hardship make her afraid to give someone the same life? Or is it fear of failing? Of disappointing? Damn… I'm useless at this. I need that therapist Helen's card… I can't help her alone—not with wounds this old.
But she said nothing of that aloud.
Instead, she tightened her embrace and whispered into MK's hair, "You don't have to be anything but mine. You hear me? Whatever you are, whoever you are… I choose you. And I'm not going anywhere."
MK's fingers clutched her shirt like she was holding on to the only stable thing left in her world.
Shriya kissed her temple softly—an anchor, a promise, a shield.