It feels strange to write this, as if I’m confessing something that keeps spinning around in my mind. I guess I just have to get it out. Maybe you’ll understand how quickly things can change in just one night, especially when you’ve been ignoring what’s right in front of you.
I’m 23, just out of undergrad, working as a graphic designer and living in Chicago. My roommate, Sarah, is the same age—finishing her master’s in social work. She’s a little taller than me, way more athletic, with hazel eyes that always seem to be laughing at something I can’t quite see. We’d both moved to the city for school and lucked into a two-bedroom apartment in Logan Square, splitting rent, surviving off microwave meals, and trading stories at the tiny kitchen table. We clicked right away. She could make me laugh on my worst days. But for a long time, I convinced myself that was all it was—friendship.
The truth is, there were signals. Her gym shorts in the laundry pile so often it was just easier to do mine right after, the late-night Netflix binges that ended with her head falling onto my shoulder, her hand brushing against mine. Still, I didn’t want to ruin what we had by reading into things. I’d never done anything with a woman before, and though the curiosity was there—like a low-level static hum in the background—I’d gotten good at tuning it out.
One Friday night after a long week, Sarah burst into the apartment, hair soaked through from the rain, carrying a bottle of Pinot Grigio. “We’re watching something trashy and getting drunk,” she declared, already kicking off her sneakers. I was in my comfiest sweats, laptop closed, ready for whatever. She poured two glasses, curling up next to me on the battered sofa, thigh pressed against mine.
We watched The Bachelor and cracked stupid jokes, the wine going down easier than usual. At some point, her hand landed on my knee. She froze and smirked, “Whoa, sorry. Didn’t mean to invade your personal space.” But she didn’t move it.
I made some half-hearted joke about charging her rent for using my legs as an armrest, but my pulse quickened. The hand stayed. Casual, but solid, her thumb tracing little circles that made heat bloom behind my sternum. Thing is, I was never bold about this stuff. I always waited for someone else to make the first move, which let me keep pretending nothing was there unless someone forced my hand.
She glanced over at me, lamp light flickering across her cheekbones. “Can I tell you something?” she asked, voice suddenly low and different.
“Of course,” I tried to sound casual, but my voice caught. Her look was way too serious for a Bachelor night.
“I think you’re fucking gorgeous,” she said. “And I know that sounds like I’m hitting on you, but I can’t stop thinking about how good it would feel to just kiss you.”
I felt a rush of heat climb up my chest, throat, face. I laughed—out of nerves, probably—and tried to dismiss it. “You’ve had too much wine.”
“Have I?” she pressed, moving in a little closer. “Just tell me if I’m all wrong, and I’ll drop it forever.” Her hand squeezed my knee.
I swallowed hard. Every cell in my body wanted to blurt out yes, but my mouth wouldn’t work. I had flashes in my head—us, the awkwardness, the ruined safe territory, the apartment suddenly smaller if things got weird. I heard myself say, “It’s not that I don’t want to, I just…I don’t know. I’ve never—” But I couldn’t finish the sentence. Sarah pulled away, just a little.
“Hey,” she said, gentle, eyes not leaving mine. “We don’t have to do anything. But you don’t have to be sure about it. People think you’re supposed to have this big revelation before you try anything new. But that’s bullshit.”
Her words stuck with me. The night wore on. We slid into talking about other crap, laughing harder, hands drifting but never quite getting back to that spot. When she went to bed, my skin still buzzed. I hardly slept.
The next day the awkwardness I’d feared…wasn’t really there. If anything, we almost talked more, circled each other in the kitchen. She wore a tank top with no bra, hair messier than usual, catching my gaze on her and murmuring “what?” with a lazy half-smile. It was a weird dance: neither of us sure if we’d step on the other’s toes.
I went to work; she headed to campus. We messaged each other throughout the day, stream-of-consciousness—memes, complaints, flirting disguised as “roommate updates.” The temptation crept up. That low background hum was impossible to ignore now.
That night, when she came home late, she tiptoed right into my room without knocking, closing the door behind her. Her voice was quiet but serious. “Look. I meant everything I said. If you want this, tell me. If you’re not ready, I’ll never bring it up again. But don’t torture me.”
I sat up, heart hammering, the words spilling out before I could stop them: “I want to, I just…promise it won’t get weird, okay?”
She grinned. “Nothing in this apartment has ever been normal anyway.” Her joke steadied me.
She slid onto the bed beside me, sitting close enough that our knees bumped and then—slowly—she put her hand on my cheek. She didn’t dive straight in; she waited. I think that’s what undid me. I closed the gap, finally kissing her, soft at first, tentative, her lips surprisingly warm and gentle.
Then it shifted—her mouth more urgent, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that made my head spin. She pressed closer, hand tightening in my hair, drawing me nearer. I gasped, breath ragged. Her fingers trailed down my neck, collarbone, then over my shirt, tracing the outline of my nipple through the thin cotton.
“Jesus, Sarah,” I muttered, my voice barely my own.
She grinned against my mouth, her hands sliding up, tugging my shirt over my head. I was trembling, uncertain, equal parts fear and raw desire. She paused, searching my face. “Still okay?” she whispered.
“I’m way past okay,” I managed, a little shy, a little giddy.
She leaned back, eyes hungry, and shrugged off her tank top, her bare skin making my stomach tighten with want. I reached for her, watching her nipples harden under my gaze. She guided my hands, showing me how she liked to be touched, softly first, then rougher as the seconds ticked by.
Somehow we wound up tangled together, half under my sheets, my shorts discarded somewhere on the floor. Sarah’s mouth traced down over my stomach, her fingers stroking between my legs. I froze for a second; she felt me tense. “Just relax,” she breathed, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss to my inner thigh. “I want to make you feel amazing.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as she licked and sucked me, her tongue working patterns I’d never imagined. It felt like every nerve ending in my body was firing at once, pleasure crashing over me hard and fast. I dug my nails into her shoulder, crying out, not caring if our neighbors heard.
After, we lay together, sweaty and tangled, the hem of the blanket barely covering us. My heart was still racing. “You’re actually blushing,” she teased.
I laughed, covering my face. “I can’t believe this just happened.”
She planted a kiss on my forehead. “Believe it. Tomorrow we’ll order pizza and ignore each other in the kitchen, just to keep things balanced.”
But she curled up tighter against me, arm wrapped around my waist. I realized I didn’t want distance. Not then, not after. For the first time, the background static was gone—all I could hear was the rush of her breath steady with mine, our hearts thudding in sync in the quiet dark.