Sapphic Love Letters I Never Got to Send
Nicole Cabrera
Have you ever felt a woman’s lips?
In case you haven’t, let me tell you.
They’re soft – warm and pillowy, pink and perfect. Inviting – pouty and pretty.
When kissed, there’s no comparison.
They are kinder, gentler, and more considerate than their counterparts. Stereotypical, but time after time, it’s proven true.
Thump, thump…
My heart the first time.
I could feel it struggling against my chest – heavy and frantic – my best friend leaning over to peck me on the cheek.
Seventh grade.
A bleak computer room – painfully bright overhead fluorescent lights, shiny linoleum floors, and her. 5’4 in blue jeans and a baggy hoodie, warm caramel hair cascading past her shoulders and landing peacefully at mid-back.
Jordan.
We were close friends, always together. Looked so similar that we’d call each other sis. My awakening.
“Hey, sis!” She slumped into her chair beside me as the bell rang and reached for my hand, interlacing her fingers with mine, nudging her head into its home on my shoulder. The heat of her small palm flowed into mine. I returned the greeting, and just a moment later, she leaned up, planting her soft lips on my prepubescent cheek. My cheeks flushed and my hands clammed up, and her, oblivious and none the wiser, resumed her place on my unsteady shoulder.
I did not understand why I felt the way I did, and for the rest of the period I scrambled my thoughts for answers as she clicked away on the school’s PC.
The moment etch-a-sketched itself into my brain, shaking my memories clean and bringing it back up when I’d least expect it.
Late at night – sifting clear, re-sketching, sifting clear, re-sketching, sifting clear, re-sketching.
Those warm round eyes peering up at me and leaning in tormented my soul. She didn’t know what she’d done to me, and I made it sure she never found out.
—
Of course, I dated boys – and got my heart broken by them too. Easily manipulatable, easily charmed, easily fooled. Boys were masters at playing with my emotions. I stayed in an abusive relationship from eighth grade until my junior year of high school, and another from junior to senior year. Over three years have passed, and my therapist still hears about them.
Regardless, I admired girls from afar. My freshman year of high school, in a Barnes and Noble in a local shopping mall, shitty boyfriend not far away, I met the girl that flipped the switch.
Julie.
There was some event that day (what for, I can’t remember for the life of me), and I had gone to visit my “friend” – a tall, goth, female college student who I both literally and figuratively looked up to. Instead, a girl my height and one year my elder approached me. Long black hair and styled bangs, she complimented my Spirited Away themed dress and asked to draw me.
Pulling out a silver mechanical pencil and a loose piece of paper, we took turns drawing each other. Her lithe pale fingers worked the metal pencil like magic, sketching a mini-me onto the page. She signed the bottom and wrote her number. We walked the mall as new friends, boyfriend at my side.
“Oh my god, you have freckles! They’re so cute – I love girls with freckles.”
Her words filled my empty head, and like a puppy being pet, I bathed in her attention.
In a moment of privacy, I asked her who she liked.
Without hesitation, she replied.
“Both. I’m bisexual.”
So confident. So assured. She was so secure and definite in her answer. She knew herself. God, I wanted to be as sure as her.
That night, when my abusive long-distance boyfriend went home, I came out to him over a FaceTime call.
He accepted me, and we didn’t speak of it.
For the next year, every few weeks, I’d visit Julie at her job in the nearby food mart and sit in the cafeteria, sneaking glances at her as I pretended to do work and going up to chat with her when business was slow.
Every time my mom would ask me why I visited the random mart so often, the response was always the same:
“To see my friend.”
—
My junior year of high school, after endless arguing and torment, I escaped one terrible relationship to enter another. The first half of the new relationship was idyllic, but as it went on, history repeated itself.
That year, I had three classes with a new girl. She was a very religious transfer student, and I was one of her first friends.
Shy, studious, and serious.
Selena.
In creative writing, we sat on opposite ends of the room, as per the seating chart – me in the back left, and her in the front right. In personal finance, directly across from me, behind our large PC monitors. In American history, two seats in front of me, and one to the right. Regardless of the seating chart, I’d watch her sneak glances at me in each class. I’d catch her and smile back, and her eyes would dart, face flushing bright red each time, without fail. It was cruel, but I enjoyed teasing her.
She asked me who I liked.
Without hesitation, I replied.
“Both. I’m bisexual.”
She nodded and stared off. In our finance class, I followed her gaze to the window, littered with somber raindrops. The next week, she told me she might be gay. I nodded and reassured her that it was ok.
Every once in a while, we’d do homework over Skype.
In history, one time, I cheered her on from my desk when she got too embarrassed to finish her presentation.
Over fall break, she taught me how to solve a Rubik’s Cube.
We’d drink bubble tea together at lunch.
She struggled, and I watched her slow descent into self-hatred. I’d offer to help, but she’d adamantly refuse. When I’d ask her about her sexuality, she’d blush and shake her head.
Later that year, she threw herself down a flight of stairs.
Luckily she only broke her arm, but it was enough for the school to deem her too mentally unstable to return. She had to go to a special hospital and was subsequently delayed a year. To my knowledge, she switched schools. We haven’t spoken since.
Last week I saw her on Facebook, smiling in a church group photo.
—
The summer before college, my mental health plummeted. Midway through senior year, after countless nights of sobbing and much deliberation, I had broken up with my boyfriend. I suffered the heartbreak of the person I’d thought was my soulmate far into my freshman year of college.
The one perk of having broken up with my ex was that, for the first time in over six years, I was single. I was able to actually explore my feelings for women.
To drown my sorrows, I turned to Tinder.
As a result of never having had the opportunity to be in a relationship with a person of the female gender, it turned out that I sucked at flirting with girls.
Like, really sucked.
You see, women aren’t like men – they’re much harder to read and much more complex. Where I’d feel I could have a boy wrapped around my finger, with a girl, I’d turn into a hopeless mess.
I’d turn into the female equivalent of a frat boy around women I was interested in – all fake bravado and toughness – lots of bark and absolutely no bite.
I matched with people here and there, but my strict parents made dates unlikely.
One night, sitting in a local cafe with a friend, I swiped through absentmindedly over a cup of coffee. Amongst cheesy bios and The Office references appeared a pretty face.
Maria.
Her full lips and lion’s mane auburn hair filled my screen and overwhelmed my senses. I swiped to test my luck.
To my surprise, she swiped back, and in the coffee shop, behind small screens, we introduced ourselves. Over the new few weeks, we’d chat here and there – how our days went, our favorite artists, our passions and hopes for the future. She was a wildly talented artist studying nursing at a nearby community college to make ends meet. I’d sit in awe of her art.
As summer approached, so did the yearly New York City Pride event. That year, for the first time, I’d decided I had to go. To avoid an unwanted interrogation from my parents, I slept over at my friend’s house. The next morning three of my friends and I strapped up in multi-colored flags and bright face paint and caught rides from strangers across the bridge into the city.
The feeling of your first Pride event is the feeling of coming home.
Ear-to-ear smiles plastered the faces of the parade watchers, and strangers gave out compliments like candy. We weaved in and out of Trojan booths and collected sponsored rainbow flags, bags, and condoms.
In the week leading up to pride, I’d learned that Maria would also be there. Amongst the pleasant chaos, I’d made plans to meet her. As my friends settled in Washington Square Park, basking in the afterglow of the parade and bathing in weed’s stench, I walked a few blocks to get her.
Having just gotten off of work, she’d taken an Uber into the city on the worst possible day. I cringed at the thought of the traffic as I speed-walked the long city blocks.
I remember having nearly walked past her. She was much smaller than I’d expected – I craned over her slightly, and for once in my life, I felt large and powerful. Was this what it felt like to be a man?
I walked her back to Washington Square Park, where my friends sat lounging under a thick shady tree. She settled next to one of the many large, bulging roots, and I took my seat in front of her. We chitter chattered back and forth, time passing like the boisterous parade not too far away.
At a lull in our conversation, I took out two Fujifilm cameras I’d bought especially for the occasion.
Click.
I smiled. She turned her head in surprise and grinned sheepishly. We giggled.
In the background, amidst the smoke and grass, half-clothed people splashed each other in the mid-park fountain. We shared a glance and were whisked away, tripping over picnic blankets and chainlink barriers that threatened to kiss the floor.
We shed our Doc Martens and jumped into the fountain.
The sun beat on my back.
Her hair bounced with each dip down to splash me.
We soaked each other while playing footsie as passersby watched, smiling.
Drenched in fountain water, we joined the parade. I wrapped my hand around her waist – the first time I’d ever held a woman. Together in stride with no one to pass a wry glance, we watched in awe as the floats pass by, drag queens and Queer Eye waving down at us.
As the sun set and the city streets turned dark, we scurried along still-bustling streets like rats to the subway station. Strangers blasted classics on boomboxes and we pretended to strip on the poles.
The whole ride back, I held her hand – delicate and warm.
Her sleepy head bobbed its way onto my shoulder, and as she drifted off, I held her head in place, covering her ear with my spare hand so that she wouldn’t be woken up.
My stomach felt fuzzy and sunny. It felt right.
On the NJ Transit platform, my friends hurriedly boarded the departing bus. My busy mind struggled between the pending matters of saying goodbye properly and not missing my bus.
I was so caught up in not making things awkward that I didn’t notice as she looked at my face, smiled, got on her tiptoes, and pecked me on the lips.
Stunned, I stared back at her, my eyes wide and mouth agape.
Empty-brained, I managed a goodbye and made a bumbling run over to the bus.
The whole ride back, I knocked myself in the head.
You really are the biggest idiot on earth.
How could you manage to be so fucking awkward?
Why the actual fuck didn’t you kiss her first?
When I got home I sent a lengthy and embarrassing apology text.
Summer passed, bad mental health, and freshman year of college took the reins, and we never got the chance to become anything serious.
Now and then, we’ll message each other and smile stupidly behind our screens, thinking of how we made one another feel that day.
The film cameras still lay dormant in my desk drawer.
Nicole Cabrera is a student at Rutgers University, graduating in Spring 2023 with a BA in English. She is the Secretary of Demarest Hall and creator of The Johnnies, a monthly student-submitted literary and art zine. In her free time, you can find her crocheting, playing rhythm games, or performing with her band, Something Odd.