Sandy.
That came later, when Nisha had language for it. At fifteen—in the moment, in Mrs. Hartley's honors English class, in the row behind Sandy's careful dark hair and the way Sandy's shoulders curved forward when she was thinking—it wasn't "oh, I like girls."
It was just: her. Electric. Undeniable.
Language brought panic.
They'd been partnered on a project about The Great Gatsby, which was perfectly benign and perfectly torturous. Sandy's apartment was quiet. Her mother was a surgeon, kept irregular hours. There was study time, and then there was Sandy showing her the annotated margins of her book, their heads close enough to share the page, and Nisha smelling whatever soap or shampoo Sandy used and feeling it like a hand in her chest, like her whole body was suddenly aware of itself in a way that terrified her.
"You okay?" Sandy had asked. "You're flushed."
"Fine," Nisha had said. "Just thinking about the symbolism."
It was the worst lie she'd ever told. Sandy was perceptive. She was perceptive about everything.
Nothing happened that day. Nothing happened most days. But there was a kiss—one kiss, in Sandy's basement after the project was finished and presented and graded an A-minus—and it was soft, and it was curious, and it wasn't chaste. Sandy's hand in her hair. Nisha's hand pulling Sandy closer. Time dilating into something that felt like falling.
Sandy pulled back first, both of them breathing hard. "I think I'm… I don't know. Did you…?"
"Yeah." God, yes. "I don't know what I am, but yeah."
Over the next month, they found time. Sandy's basement when her mother was at the hospital. A park after dark. Sandy's car parked in the lot behind the school. Each time, Nisha felt herself unfold—her body knew what it wanted, even if her mind was screaming. Sandy touched her like she was learning a language. Nisha learned it too. There was nothing experimental about it. It was urgent and real and completely, terrifyingly real.
The attraction was physical first, undeniable. Sandy's skin against hers—warm, smooth, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the faint salt of sweat. Nisha's hands memorizing the curve of Sandy's waist, the way her breath hitched when fingers traced lower. It wasn't tentative. It was hungry. Sandy's mouth on her neck, teeth grazing just enough to make Nisha arch, to make her forget the cold park bench or the cramped backseat. The satisfaction came in waves—each touch building, each discovery a revelation.
Sandy's fingers knowing exactly where to press, where to linger, turning Nisha's gasps into something that felt like completion. She came hard the first time, Sandy's name on her lips, the world narrowing to that single point of contact. Afterward, they lay tangled, breathing ragged, Sandy's hand still resting possessively on Nisha's thigh. It wasn't just pleasure. It was recognition. Her body responding in ways that made the confusion in her head feel secondary, almost irrelevant. For those stolen moments, it was enough. More than enough. It was the only thing that felt true.
Then Sandy met someone else—a tall soccer player with a car—and moved on. Not unkind about it. She just… chose the thing that made sense. The thing that fit. And Nisha realized later that for Sandy it had been a phase, a question mark that got answered. For Nisha, it was a door that had opened and wouldn't close.
She carried the memory like a brand—hidden, burnished, claiming her.
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