#the only reason all this drivel didnt get copied to my notes app to die a quiet death is that the tumblr app is dreadful

[she-is-27-i-checked]

I wanna hear about the 27 and Mrs. 27 “best friends to lovers” origin story. The debauched version anyway. 😏

Ahhh that old tale.... settle down children, this one is rambling....

Mrs and I met at university. My first knowledge of her was one of my new friends, who I had a fiendish crush on, had made a new friend and Would Not Shut Up About This Bitch. So I'm not thrilled to meet her, as you can imagine. But meet we did. We were in the same lectures and always running into each other's circles on drunken nights out.

One of her flatmates was an out and proud lesbian who started taking Mrs to the LGBTQ society meetings "as her guest". Soon enough every lesbian in our uni got a whiff of her and went batshit feral. I'd say she spent 3 years fighting them off, but honestly, I think she's only noticed about 30% of it. I hung around as faithful, extremely platonic friend and heard about all her escapades with everyone else. (I only occasionally, guiltily, got off to the thought of her abs 👀)

Much to my annoyance she actually was that funny and that lovely and that kind as my friend had said. Mrs was still approximating heterosexuality at this point, if not very convincingly.

We maintained that status quo for the whole of uni both dating other people, though her a lot more than me — because she's gorgeous in this perfect, lesbian crack sort of a way - ripped with a tiny waist and big tits. Swaggering around with her boxers showing and a hockey hoodie on despite never playing hockey. And she's somehow completely oblivious to how hot she is and she's funny and brilliant and the girls just fell at her confused little lesbian feet.

Anyway... cut to 6 years into the friendship, uni is done and we've gathered this little group of gays and we spend Friday nights drinking and dancing in a handful of clubs of various degrees of homosexuality. In these places she and I are constantly pushing the boundaries of friendly. Men would approach her and I'd repel their advances by pretending we were a couple — dancing too close, trapping her against the wall and hovering a hair's breadth away from a kiss. We danced less and less appropriately, all out grinding on each other on the dancefloor. We'd loiter in the bathroom gossiping, me sat up on the sinks, her between my knees leaning in a little too much ... and we would never never acknowledge any of it in the light of day. I would stay at her place because I lived outside the city and we somehow fell into the habit of cuddling in bed on these nights. She was always the little spoon, she would pull my arm around her waist as she's settling down. I'd feel like a hero, like a knight protecting her. I somehow - SOMEHOW - I was in complete and utter denial that I was in love with her.

Then one day we push just a little too far... I had fallen from my bike that morning, and grazed a patch over my eyebrow. We started drinking cheap wine at 2 in the afternoon at a Yates wine bar. Our hot, bi friend showed up and started flirting indiscriminately as she did... It all sparked the tinder that had been piling up for years. We still, to this day, don't know who kissed who first. All I know is the moment we did a wall of denial fell for me and I knew I'd never be the same again. When we broke apart my brain started turning at a million miles an hour and all I knew was I needed to get out of there. I couldn't stay over at her place or everything was going to be ruined. I got up, made my panicked excuses, and bolted for the door, dead set on catching the last bus home. She followed because of course she did. She talked me down like a scared animal and coaxed me into a taxi. When we got to her place we froze up entirely, with no idea how to even be around each other anymore. In the end she convinced me to get into bed and we put Buffy on, our comfort show. As we got comfy, hands started to wander. The tension mounted again until it snapped and the laptop got unceremoniously dumped off the side of the bed. We had the kind of rabid, clawing, urgent sex you only have with the person you've been subconsciously trying not to have sex with for years. It's not elegant or practiced but its desperate and we both end up marked for days after. In the small hours of the morning high on hormones and drunk on danger we fell about giggling at the silliest of things. In the afterglow she falls into a peaceful, drunken, fucked-out sleep. And I... do not. I lay there terrified and trembling, turning everything over and over in my mind until morning. And in the morning, she behaves...

It was February 12th — two days before valentine's day.

...exactly like every other morning: Like nothing happened.

That's not the end of the story, as you all know. But it is the beginning.