09/04: Female romance options

You thumb through the female options, remembering what you can of your past life.

Anna: A cascade of memories hits you. Bright ginger hair catching the sun, a constellation of freckles across her nose, and a dazzling, all-American smile. She’s your neighbor, the popular cheerleader of proud Irish descent, her body honed to athletic perfection. But the image that sticks is from the summer before high school. You’re sharing secrets in the old treehouse, her face inches from yours in the dusty light. Then the memory shifts. It’s the first week of freshman year, and she laughs at a cruel joke made at your expense. She looks right at you, and the warmth in her eyes is just... gone. She’s the one who got away before you even knew there was a race.

Jenna: Your female best friend. You see her now: a chaotic masterpiece of dyed purple-and-black hair and dark lipstick on a pair of full, perpetually smirking lips. Her oversized cardigan can't hide the generous swell of her breasts or the soft, womanly curve of her hips. She's the perfect "big tiddy goth gf," a vision of pale, almost luminous white skin against dark, ratty clothes. She has a reputation she wears like a crown—your slutty, fiercely loyal, and unapologetically bisexual best friend. You remember a revolving door of partners, boys and girls, each relationship a brief, supernova of passion that inevitably burned out. The only constants in her life were you and Aaron. The sharpest regret is her birthday offer. Every year since you turn sixteen, she makes the same teasing, yet sincere, promise to take care of your "virginity problem." Every year, you're too scared to say yes, terrified you'll just be another one of her short, intense stories. And that strange, humming energy you always feel around her, a "weird vibe" that makes the air feel thick and hot whenever she gets close.

Angela: The brilliant, intimidating transfer student. You picture a flash of dyed blonde hair, cut short and messy, revealing the dark roots beneath. It frames a face of sharp, intelligent Korean features and intense, analytical eyes that always seemed fiercely focused. You're in AP Calculus. She drops a pencil, and it rolls near your foot. You just stare at it, your heart hammering, too intimidated by her compact, toned body and her abrasive shell to even bend down and pick it up for her. She remains a fantasy of contained, explosive power.

Kaguya: The beautiful, mysterious heiress. You see her gliding through the halls, always in a formal, pristine school uniform that hints at the slender, graceful figure beneath. With her long, silky black hair and flawless, porcelain Japanese skin, she’s like a princess in a bubble of untouchable, old-money beauty, even though you've heard whispers that her family's fortune is brand new, built from the ground up by her bamboo-farmer father. You see her once leaving the library, hiding a book between her textbooks, her cheeks flushed. Her uniform jacket slips, revealing the tantalizing curve of her waist. Your heart stops. It's a perfect chance to talk to her, to see the real person behind the mask, but you flee, too afraid to shatter the illusion of the perfect, untouchable princess.

Cassie: The burnout with sad eyes. The image that sticks is a cascade of thick, dark, wavy hair—a proud Native American inheritance—obscuring a face that's still beautiful despite her apathy, with high cheekbones and full, pouty lips. Oversized t-shirts hid a figure you suspected was softer and more curvaceous than she let on, her skin holding warm, coppery undertones. You get a flash of a memory from freshman year, before everything changed. She's laughing in the hallway, her face bright and full of life, excited about making the varsity soccer team. Then the accident with her younger brother happens; you remember whispers of a funeral. You watch her light go out, see her trade her soccer uniform for faded flannel, and you never once ask why. The regret of that silence is a heavy weight.

Maya: The gentle library assistant. You picture her tucked away in her sanctuary, her long, dark hair falling like a curtain around her soft, pretty features. A quiet testament to her Latina heritage, her skin seemed to hold the warmth of the sun, giving her a healthy, constant glow. She has a delicate, slender frame with a subtle, gentle curve to her hips under a modest skirt. You're reaching for the same fantasy novel as her. Your fingers almost brush. You pull your hand back like you've been burned and let her have it. She gives you a tiny, grateful smile, a fleeting glimpse of the warmth you're too scared to pursue.