#I tried doing shorter braids but they ended up being more shoulder length than bob

[thedeepfanpage]

I was seriously inspired by @headfullof-ideas Fontaine with short and orange braids

[fairestwriting]

PLEASE DO, MY GAY LIL HEART LOVES WOMEN-

referring to this post

ask and ye shall receive... this is just clothes/hair/acccessories notes. sorry for the brainrot in some of these but.. twst women go brr. also in this by short skirt i mean like miniskirt length, and long is nearing knee length. medium would be a midpoint between the two

also any of yall are free to share your headcanons with me jddjfjdfj i have a thing for character design

riddle: Listen i hate when people draw her with twintails. big pet peeve of mine its not riddle at all. shed have one of these really fancy braided buns, because she wants to look proper -- and for the same reason, her skirt is a bit longer and she wears black tights (we are keeping the heeled shoes tho)

ace: hmm not much should change i dont think? i imagine her looking sort of tomboyish. hair like male ace but maybe just a bit longer, maybe one or two red barettes because she still wants to be cute. short skirt and socks

deuce: "tomboy at heart but shes trying to be a proper lady" kind of look. had short hair in her delinquent days but shes growing it out so its juuust a little shorter than shoulder length. longer skirt but short socks. she rips all the tights she tries so she figured that would be easier

trey: god so shes the one i can never really figure out... i only ever see people drawing her w short hair but im not sure if i like it much the hairstyles they do are often just kinda ugly- i think that kinda works, though, maybe chin length hair for her. as long as her bangs are just a little different from her male counterpart. medium length skirt and under the knee socks.

cater: same hairstyle with the bangs pulled back i think but long hair.. though short would look good on her too! shed be very cute. maybe ties her jacket around her waist and shes definitely a short skirt gal. has painted nails and nice makeup on and her socks are thigh highs or the loose ones.

rest under the cut bc this is mad long-

leona: hnngghh hot lion lady i cant decide if i like her more with short hair or long hair... i can go either way i think. short skirt and she still wears those wack ass sandals. this goes without saying but she has male leonas undone buttons too

ruggie: certified tomboy. same hair as male ruggie pretty much, same rolled up sleeves. she wears a skirt bc its part of the uniform id imagine but if they had like, a shorts option shed take it. shed be a shorts kind of gal. really short socks

jack: shoulder length hair, still fluffy and kinda spiky! maybe up in a sporty ponytail or something. shes still Very buff (read this in a simp voice) and would probably wear pants if they had the option in the uniform. if they dont have that then just... medium skirt i think, but she probably wears some kind of shorts underneath it. short socks and her jacket is tied around her waist more often than not

azul: GOD do i have thoughts about her. i also have a pet peeve regarding her hair i think fem azul would 100% be the type to have long hair instead of just keeping male azuls cut... its chest length and wavy and she keeps most of it pushed over one shoulder. medium skirt, she cares about being proper but still wants to look cute, probably would wear black tights but boy do i wanna see her in thigh highs

jade: hair is a very neat bob, i think! not that much different from her male counterpart, she still keeps the classiness. Obvious tights wearer and any skirt length would work with her, i think. though i cant see her in a very short one because she does care about being proper

floyd: also bobbed hair, except its a huge mess and she would probably pull it into a ponytail whenever shes able to.... short skirt and socks, some undone buttons. rolled up sleeves more often than not.

kalim: hghghghhg i can never decide on what hair id go with for her ~_~ in the end i think long and fluffy would be the most fitting, its about chest length and she does a variety of different styles, sometimes twintails, sometimes ponytails, sometimes she just leaves it the way it is! short skirt and socks, probably even more accessories than her male counterpart + painted nails (that jamil painted for her)

jamil: oh i can only see her being very similar to male jamil. same hairstyle pretty much though i think shed be heavier with the makeup, like her eyeshadow would be a bit darker? keeps the hoodie, medium shirt and short socks just below the knee. she probably looks scarier than her regular counterpart

vil: so we officially are in “similar to their counterpart” territory... i dont think fem vil could even be very different tbh, what sets her apart is that she has actually long hair- maybe past chest length even but she keeps that variety between having her hair up and down that vil has. either medium or long skirts bc she wants to keep it classy, obvious tights wearer. she has acrylic nails she changes every now and then and theyre Sharp. makeup on point always including this really intense red lipstick

rook: continuing our travel through similar territory... same hair, same weird ass hat, very similar in general. i just feel like shed be vaguely masculine too? but not in that “rough” way, or at least thats not how she looks like usually. medium skirt and she keeps the boots so you dont see her socks really. another one that would very much prefer to wear pants. sometimes she has red lipstick on because vil does her makeup every now and then

epel: a tough one tbh! i think she could either have the same haircut as epel, or slightly longer but she keeps it in a slightly messy ponytail. medium skirt, wishes so much they had a pants option. socks are hidden by the boots. shes very cute

idia: HRHRGFHRHHG *TRIES CONTAINING MY BRAINROT* SHE HAS SHORT HAIR AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL!!!!! keeps the jacket with short skirt and thigh highs. Does not think shes cute enough to wear a short skirt with thigh highs but all her waifus wear them so she has to. God i love my gamer gilfriend

ortho is just ortho but with little fire pigtails i care her

malleus: hnngh hot fae lady out with the mullet first of all it wouldnt fit her regal energy. she does have very long hair though, like way past chest length, and it does that thing thats like... when some parts are tied at the back and kept together with some sort of pin? That. long skirt and tights, high heels even though she doesnt need them, painted nails and dark eyeshadow. Queen

lilia: ...both lilias look the same and you cant convince me otherwise. if she wears a skirt its very short though and it has something underneath for volume so it looks ruffled and cute. would wear thigh highs too but not always

silver: either short hair or an updo of some kind... im thinking milk braids (different from riddles, you can see the bun in her hair but for silver its just the braids) to keep that royal ish energy. also decently proper, long skirt and alternates between tights and below the knee socks

sebek: i can only visualize her with long hair for some reason. its still very spiky and parted the same way her male counterpart does it, uniform absolutely on point and also mimicking malleus a little with the skirt and tights

[boluwatifs]

Hair as homecoming: how becoming my own hairdresser helped me build a rhythm of self care and mental health

I am multitasking as I write this.

I have Solange’s ‘Don’t touch my hair’ playing on full volume as I use one half of my brain to type and the other half to re-twist my locs – perhaps for the last time. I am contemplating shaving my head for the first time in my life, the only reason being that I feel like it.

I remember there being a period of time when the thought of having no hair on my head would have terrified me. I was attached to my hair because of its external value. Hair was about beauty, it was about comfort in conformity. Now though, when I look back on the somewhat sentimental journey that my hair has taken me on, I realise that it became so much more than it first was. It became about self-care. Doing my hair became a restorative, therapeutic exercise – it grew in length and it grew in meaning.

I think I am finally starting to get the gist of what Solange means when she sings poetry about hair. ‘It’s the feelings I wear’ ‘It’s the rhythm I know’. As ridiculous and ‘fake-deep’ as it might sound, she is right. In the past few years of my life, my hair has been one of the ways I have been able to give rhythm to self-care and mental health.

There was a time in my life where hair had nothing to do with self-care. In childhood, the only function my hair had (that I knew of) was to be pretty. The only reason I got it done and re-done every three to six weeks was to be prettier. It seemed almost inevitable that I would inherit the thick, black, fast-growing hair that runs through my mother’s side of the family. From about age 5, it was chemically straightened and almost always tied down in tight cornrows with colourful plastic beads attached to the ends. Hair was competition. It was never a formal contest, but to me, each glance at another girl’s hair was a challenge – like what boys did with Pokémon cards or Beyblades. Whose is the best? Whose is the longest? Having long relaxed hair seemed, at that time, to be the epitome of prettiness. The longer the hair, the prettier the girl, the more jealous of her other girls would be. Girls with shorter hair seemed to move around with explanations taped to their tongues; ‘my hair used to be down to here but then my mum cut it’, they knew that the ability to grow long hair was the standard of beauty.

Hair was superficial – I didn’t think about it deeply enough for it to have anything to do with self-care. It was something that was done to me and decided for me. As a girl child growing up in Nigeria, in a middle-class family, having your hair done was a requirement rather than a luxury. Loose hair meant untidy hair and untidy hair was criminal. At the primary school I went to, among polished black shoes and crisply ironed uniform, it was a requirement for girls, at all times and under all circumstances, to have their hair plaited into cornrows or Calabar braids. The only freedom I had was choosing between intricately named styles; all-back or patewo, suuku or two-step. Oftentimes on special occasions like graduations or prize-giving ceremonies the school would put out a formal request for all the girls to synchronise their hairstyles. My hair wasn’t mine, it was uniform.

When I was old enough to get my first set of hair extensions, I did. I remember my grandma taking me to get my first ‘pack and gel’ – a slicked down ponytail with a synthetic hair piece attached tightly to it with a needle and thread. I was about eight-years-old, and this particular ‘pack and gel’ hung all the way down past my back. With this hair I was Beyoncé and Rihanna combined – I would walk around my grandma’s house flicking my head side to side making sure that my ponytail swung as I walked and that everyone saw it. Hair styling was just as much a punishment as it was a reward. Combs were torture instruments and hairdressers might as well have been executioners. The sight of little girls writhing and blubbering under the hands of unperturbed hairdressers would look like an act of abuse to anyone unfamiliar with the rituals of black hairdressing. As part of this ritual the hairdresser would cock my neck back and forth, I would cry loudly, my mum would threaten to shave my hair off if I continued, at which I would immediately pack it in – new episode every three to six weeks.

Looking back, I am aware that there was also a time in my life when feelings I was having towards my hair were damaging to my self-esteem – paying too much attention to my hair became the opposite of self-care. This this time came in my mid-teens when, amongst a plethora of physical anxieties that had begun to take shape, my hair became a problem. After years and years of my hair being a thing that was done to me rather than a thing I was in control of, the baton was suddenly passed to me. I was clueless. This period started off gleefully, I browsed through the endless styles of braids and weaves on the internet. I had graduated from all-back and patewo to jumbo braids (with blonde highlights of course) and Marley twists down to the middle of my back. I no longer cried at the hair dresser’s, instead I would sit patiently, clenching my jaw for all six hours it would take for her to transform me. There was a thrill that came with being able to re-invent myself every six weeks. One day shoulder length braided bob, the next day purple bum-length Senegalese twists that made me look three years older.

It looked good on the outside, but soon my hair was dry, brittle and breaking in places that made me feel ugly. I had no idea what to do or how to take care of it when it wasn’t wrapped in synthetic hair, so I watched it fall apart. Putting my hair in braids became a way of running away from it. Thinking about it made me sad. Every hair appointment, the hairdresser met me with raised eyebrows and a question mark; ‘what happened to your hair?’ ‘but it used to be so long?’. Paying too much attention to my hair became an exercise in self-loathing. I added it to the list of body parts that I tried hard not to think about. I got weaves to cover up the broken sections – the more I did this, the more it broke. I covered it up well enough for no-one to notice. I went from one set of braids to the next in a matter of hours, never letting my natural hair see any light except whatever came from the fluorescent bulbs of the hairdresser’s shop.

I finally decided to break this damaging cycle by starting from scratch. It was weird how hard it was to part with hair that I had never cut even when every strand was damaged to the core by heat and chemicals. I had to ignore all the bones in my body left over from childhood that were telling me that long hair was essential to beauty. I vowed never to let my hair see a chemical again and after a couple of months I cut it off. This was perhaps the first time a decision about my hair was more than superficial. Though I didn’t know it then, this was me drawing the first few inches of a line that directly connected hair to mental self-care. It was a hard but necessary step. All the excuses I had previously given for hanging on to dead weight on my head instead of going natural consisted of complaints that it was time consuming. When I cut my hair off, natural hair became exactly that; time consuming. And so it turned into a ritual. It forced me to consume time with myself. I watched youtube videos religiously. I re-twisted my hair for a morning twist out every single night (yes, I was crazy and enthusiastic). Amidst the hurricane of almost failing A-Levels, worrying about if universities would accept me, having fewer and fewer people to talk to everyday, and my health taking a left turn, doing my hair gave me a centre. It was the red light at which I stopped to think about myself – and to forget about myself if I wanted to.

Doing my hair became meditation. I would sit cross-legged in my bedroom, under a warm light, in front of a floor-length mirror for an hour most nights. It became a necessary silence. Sometimes it was an opportunity for reflection, other times it was the time that allowed me to become an empty space – focusing only on the texture of my hair under the coconut oil as I twisted. It might have been vanity, but maybe vanity is beautiful when you have been taught to be angry with yourself. Doing my hair became much more than just about my hair being healthy or looking good, it was an icecap I could float on when everything around me felt like it was melting.

I experimented with low tension styles that I could easily learn and do myself; crochet braids, mini-twists, yarn braids. Hair went from being a thing that was just on my head to being a thing that was a part of my life. It was so much different from waiting impatiently under a hairdresser’s hands, paying in money and pain for a new version of myself – it was a calm self-customisation, it didn’t hurt because it taught me how to be easy with myself. It allowed me to build a much-needed trust in myself. I followed instructions on how to braid or twist or give myself an undercut from youtube videos, never being entirely sure what I was doing or how I would look on the other side but the freedom and power over myself was in my hands. Doing my hair myself taught me to be okay with myself. There was no-one to push the blame for terrible styling on, so it forced me to be okay with whoever I was and however I looked.

Spending so much time with my hair has also made it easier for me to take the decision to let go of it if ever I want. It is no longer the symbol of a beauty standard I am trying to meet, neither is it a burden. My hair has been knotted down into eighty locs for about a year now, for no other reason than the fact that it seemed to fit nicely with where I have been at in life for the past year. It is low maintenance and I still get that moment of stillness every few weeks where I get to breathe through my hair.

I am still not quite sure where the sudden desire to shave my head has come from. I have put my hands in my hair enough times and done enough to it to know that sometimes how it makes you feel is more important than how it looks. It seems that the period in my life that I am currently entering calls for drastic boldness and a search for freedom, maybe that is where this desire has come from. My hair has always found unintentional ways of being a practical reflection of who or what I am on the inside – it changes when I change, it is somehow the only fluctuating constant. Caring for it has become caring for myself.

It is two minutes past midnight now. I still haven’t finished re-twisting my hair and the pre-hook to ‘Don’t touch my hair’ is playing again because I have had it on repeat. Solange is singing in her soft-mellow voice. ‘They don’t understand what it means to me, where we chose to go, where we’ve been to know’.

What a perfect way to poeticise a hair journey.

[sittingoverheredreaming]

On the Night of the Ball

My entry for the prompt party, Harumichi Cinderella! Mine is a modern take, about 2600 words. Enjoy!

The phone rang just as Haruka had settled into the couch for the night. She untangled from the blanket and dove for the old landline, the long braid of her hair smacking into her back. The answering machine was in her mother’s room, and it was best not to disturb her.

“Hello?”

“So you know how I bet you fifty bucks I’d get you to go to the Halloween dance?”

“Mina, the dance is in an hour—“

“And I’ll call off the deal if you come over right now.”

Haruka sighed. “So I can either stay in pajamas and get fifty bucks, or drag myself out and get nothing?”

Mina clucked into the phone. “You can either stay in, have me come make a scene and pay me fifty bucks you don’t have when I get you to the dance, or you can come over here and not have to worry.” There was a pause, Haruka knew she was twirling her hair with her free hand. “How about this, if you come over, I’ll still pay up if you don’t go. And I’ve got the movie butter popcorn you like.”

“Fine, Mina. But I’m not changing my clothes.”

“Didn’t ask you to, buddy.”

Haruka slipped on her shoes without leaving a note. Her mother would assume she was at Mina’s, if she even noticed. And unless Haruka did something wrong, she didn’t notice.

They lived mercifully close, Mina just a few blocks away in a marginally nicer house. Her mother would be out, and father home, but it amounted to them being alone anyway. Haruka tucked the loose strands of her hair back as she got to the door. It was never easy to know what to expect with Mina. This could end with Mina literally dragging her to the dance, or it could be a wild plan that mysteriously ended in the school gymnasium, and whoops, look at that Haruka, you’re at the dance. Haruka gripped the door knob and resigned herself to losing the bet in a night of misery.

Mina stood in the foyer, dressed in a long robe she must have found at a thrift store. “Dahling, you made it,” she said in her best old-movie actress voice, leaning against the wall with a hand on her head. “I was beginning to worry.”

“What’s the plan, Mina?”

“Don’t look so resigned!” She smiled, big and devious. “I’m going to give you the night of your life.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Haruka shoved her shoulder as they filed down the hall to Mina’s bedroom. “You say that every night.”

“And compared to how you’d be without my stunning influence, it’s true.” Mina hopped onto her bed, smushing several stuffed animals. “But tonight is different. I’ve been saving up tips from the salon to pull this off.”

A new dread settled in Haruka’s stomach. “Mina, you shouldn’t waste your money—“

“You say now, having been willing to rob me dry in a bet.” Her eyes flashed, she knew she had Haruka. “I’ve still got my wages in the move-out fund, don’t you worry. But tonight’s not about what we need, it’s about what I want. And I want you to have a good time.”

“Then why can’t we stay in and watch movies?” Haruka did not do dances—not the dresses, not the shoes, not the hair, and certainly not the dancing, not where everyone could see her.

“Because we do that all the time. Tonight should be different.” Mina cracked her knuckles. “See my plan through, and then you can decide, okay? If you don’t like it, we’ll stay in and I’ll see what I can return to the store tomorrow.”

“Fine.”

Mina jumped up and grabbed Haruka’s wrist. “We’ll start with your hair.”

“Hey, wait, no. Off-limits. You promised when you started at the salon—“

“That I’d never use you as a guinea pig for styling.” Mina yanked her into the bathroom. “I’m not styling your hair, Haruka, I’m cutting it.”

“What?”

“I’m cutting your hair.” She pulled out a clipper set. “That’s always been part of the problem, hasn’t it?”

“I…” Haruka pulled on the end of her braid. “My mom…”

“Tell her it’s for a costume, and if she kicks you out anyway, you’ll stay here.” Mina softened and put her hands on Haruka’s shoulders. “Halloween is about being whatever and whoever you want to be. I, for one, want to be a slutty, slutty vampire, forever young and beautiful. You want to be something else. You can try it, for tonight, and if it’s not right you say it was all play and let your hair grow and no one will bat an eye.”

Haruka looked in the mirror. She wanted it. Always had. Her mother had caught her as a child, cutting her hair with the kitchen scissors to look like a boy’s. She had not been allowed anything more than a trim ever since. “Do you think it would look okay? You don’t think I’d look too…” She meant to say boyish, but couldn’t. Part of her wanted that, too. Not to be a boy,  but to look and exist in that space she’d rarely seen occupied, of being a different sort of woman.

“This might not be the right thing to say, buddy, but I think you might look kind of…” Mina stretched back, forcing nonchalance, “well, kind of handsome.”

Haruka bit her tongue. She leaned closer to the mirror, covered the start of her braid with her hands, a poor approximation of how it might look. “I wanna do it.”

“Okay.” Mina pulled out scissors and held them to the base of the braid. “Ready?”

Haruka took a deep breath. “Ready.”

The scissors snipped, hacking through, once, twice, three times, and – thump! The braid fell to the tile like a dead animal. The bob of Haruka’s remaining hair fanned around her face. Her head felt light, the smallest motion made easier and bigger without the weight of the braid. Mina trimmed it shorter, then switched to the clippers.

“This might tickle some.”

Just the sound as she turned it on sent shivers up Haruka’s back. It vibrated the air with a magic she’d lusted after through barber shop windows. Mina ran it up her head from her neck, and Haruka had to fight to keep still. She couldn’t mess up her chance to look how she dreamed.

Slowly more hair fell to the floor in feathery clumps, until Mina turned off the clippers and dusted Haruka off. Haruka tried not to cry—the mirror now showed a woman standing tall even in her giant hoodie, hair just long enough to be fluffy on top but shaped on the sides. “Mina…” she swallowed hard. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet, buddy. We’re only half done.”

Haruka had no more words of protest or question. Mina led the way back to her room and threw open her closet.

Haruka’s breath caught as she pulled out a suit.

“I can’t promise it will fit great, men’s sizing isn’t the same. But, you know, I tried and it should be close.” She rummaged through her drawers and pulled out a brilliant navy tie and a matching masquerade mask.

“This is too much, I can’t accept…”

“If this is a money thing, Haruka, don’t worry. I’ve been planning this long enough that I had time to get good deals.” She opened the suit jacket to reveal a big red stain on the lining. “Somehow, this has been in Goodwill for a long time, even though they insist it’s only ketchup.”

Haruka laughed in spite of her awe. “I ever tell you you’re too good to me?”

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘Thank you Mina, you’re the best and I’ll never doubt your judgement again.’”

“Thank you, Mina.”

Minako rolled her eyes. “Now, I’m going to change into my vampire dress, and give you a moment. We’ll have to leave in a few.” She grabbed her costume and vacated to the bathroom.

Haruka ran her hands along the suit sleeves. She’d worn men’s clothes before, flying under the wire with hoodies and tee-shirts that weren’t great but kept her from wanting to crawl out of her skin. This was something else entirely. She rubbed at the base of her neck, where her braid had been replaced with fuzz. She’d enter the dance a different person from the one who’d left school that day. Even if it was only for tonight, she’d be the woman she’d always dreamed of.

Slowly, she pulled off her sweatpants, then her hoodie. She slid on the pants, happy to find them only slightly too short. She stole a pair of black socks from Mina’s drawer to hide it. The shirt, on the other hand, was long, but tucked in it made no difference. Haruka pulled on the jacket slowly, suddenly worried it would make it all farcical, she’d be the ordinary gangly girl, dressing up like someone she wasn’t. But it settled onto her shoulders, tight but not too restrictive, and she turned to Mina’s full-length mirror with bated breath.

It didn’t fit perfectly. But it wasn’t glaring, and she looked… real. Or she felt real. She couldn’t think of how to say it. She fumbled with the tie until Mina came back in.

“Damn, buddy, you clean up nice.”

Haruka chuckled, then choked into tears. “Will you help me? I don’t know—“

Mina took the tie and stood behind her. “Now, you be sure to tell everyone I’m very good with my hands.” She smoothed Haruka’s collar and centered the knot. “The ladies are gonna eat their hearts out.”

“Do you think…” She hadn’t allowed herself to think too much about anyone who might be at the dance, committed as she had been to not going. But there was the girl, from homeroom, who’d sometimes caught her eye, and…

“Drag your gay ass back to earth now, buddy, you can either dream or make it happen. If we don’t leave, we’ll be much more than fashionably late.” She pulled the mask on Haruka’s head and they set out together into the night.

The gym was pulsing and packed when they arrived. The only lights came in flashing colors and through the door to the hall. Haruka pulled at the ends of her jacket.

Mina rubbed her back. “Don’t worry buddy, you’re gonna be great.”

“Nice suit, bro!” A footballer called as he passed.

Haruka swallowed. “They don’t recognize me.”

“Drastic haircuts and masks will do that. You okay?”

“Yeah I just… I feel different, too.”

Mina smiled. “Be who you wanna be, Haruka.” She paused. “Split up or stay together?”

Haruka scanned the crowd, looking for the green hair of homeroom girl. “Can we… Can I try being on my own?”

“Spread your gay little wings, buddy. You can find me if you need me.”

 -----

Michiru wondered sometimes why she attended dances. Homecoming and prom she understood—they were appearances, she would be crowned Queen and have her picture in the papers, and her family would have one more thing to brag to their friends about. But the mid-year frivolities… She sighed and nodded as Rei chewed out a boy for asking her to dance. Why Rei came was perhaps a bigger mystery-- though she faced a different side of the same pressures as Michiru, she was less apt to playing along. She knew Senator Hino oft wished he’d had a son, so that his child might court the Kaioh prodigy rather than compete with her. That Rei would have better luck as she was was lost on him.

Michiru supposed the night would go as it always did—accept a dance from her homecoming king, and then a few from those who might be her match for prom. Perhaps it all came down to training, the sweaty gym was the young version of a high society gala, the attendees not yet skilled in hiding their crude underbellies.

But then someone caught her eye. At first it seemed a boy in a sharp costume, going for a formal masquerade rather than any of the silliness others sported. But then she noticed the slight curve of chest and hip, the uncertainty in movement, the charming line of the chin.

It was a girl, and a girl the way the partners of Michiru’s dreams were girls. Their eyes met through her mask. There was something familiar, though Michiru had never met anyone like her before. She rose from her seat on the bleachers, not bothering to let Rei know where she as going. She needed to know the stranger. She needed to meet this woman.

As if on cue, the dj announced the first slow song of the night.

“Um, hi,” the other girl said as Michiru drew close.

Michiru could feel her nervousness. There was something endlessly charming about it. “Hello.”

“Would you, well, would you like to dance with me?”

“I would.”

The butch’s hand was sweaty as she took Michiru’s, her fingers shaking slightly. Michiru guided her other hand to her waist. As their eyes met again, close enough to feel each other’s breath, Michiru felt a familiarity she hadn’t expected.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?”

“Sort of.” She flushed red under her mask.

Michiru thought of the tomboy in homeroom, blushing whenever the teacher called on her, playing with her long hair like she wanted to disappear. Michiru had thought of her, looked at her, more than she cared to admit. They’d sort of met, hadn’t they? Having never spoken, but seeing each other every morning… Michiru ran her hand along the edge of the girl’s hair, wondering how recently it had been cut. “I don’t want to be wrong about who you are.”

“Don’t guess.” Her eyes widened, like hearing the wrong name might break her. “I think… Monday, if you want to find me, you’ll be able to. And if you don’t, it’s okay.”

I’ll want to find you. But Michiru said nothing and sank into the girl for the rest of the song. She could feel their heartbeats mix in their fingertips, the other girl’s pounding hard even as she got more confident in her movements.

“Tell me something that isn’t your name,” Michiru said finally as the music faded into another DJ announcement.

“Um. My favorite color is blue, which I know isn’t original, but it’s nice.” Michiru nodded for her to keep going. “And… I like flowers, but not how people perceive liking flowers. Besides right now, running is about the only time I really feel good.” She blushed again, and swallowed hard. “And maybe this goes without saying, but in case it doesn’t, I’m… I like girls. And I am a girl.”

Michiru stepped into what little space remained between them. “I have one more question.”

The girl swallowed again. “Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Her eyes went wide, but she nodded. Michiru stood on tip toe and, gently as she could, placed her lips on hers. For a moment, the whole world was still, narrowed down to the two of them.

Michiru rose a hand to the girl’s face as she pulled away. “I want to know who you are.”

“I think you’ll be disappointed.”

“I don’t.” Though she wondered—if it wasn’t the girl she’d been watching, would she be? “Whoever you are, I want to see you again.”

“Well. If that’s true, you’ll see me at school. And if-- if you still want to… you can ask me then.” She took Michiru’s hand and kissed her knuckles. “I think I should leave. This… I want to keep this night beautiful.”

Before Michiru could protest, she was gone, taken from Michiru’s sight in the crowd of bodies.

She closed her eyes, committing every second to memory. Come Monday, she’d find the girl.