Author's Note: Okay. So this is my fourth fan fic on here. This is femmeslash, so if this style of writing offends you or makes you uncomfortable, this is your chance to turn, and if you don't, then don't leave me a flame, it's your own fault. Initially, this was not set out to be a Bridget/Lena fic. It wasn't meant to be SOTTP fic, period. It just sort of evolved into one because Bridget is so damn persistent. I tried to make it as tasteful as possible, and I'm pretty sure I did a good job at achieving that. I hate trashy slash. I'm kind of iffy about the ending, I feel it was kind of rushed. So by all mean, suggestions and constructive criticismare welcome.

Disclaimer: If it were mine, I wouldn't be publishing my work on a website.

I just want to break you down so badly

I trip over everything you say

I just want to break you down so badly

In the worst way

- MakeDamnSure, Taking Back Sunday

After all this time, after eighteen months of this not saying anything—a year of awkward exchanges and tight smiles—you wonder why you even stopped being friends.

It was just some stupid party. It was right before you left for your freshman year at Florida State and you heard yelling and was drawn towards the fight just to find her face to face with another girl and she was screaming at her, telling her to keep away from her boyfriend and lies, all of it is lies.

You believed it. For some stupid, cowardly, unknown reason, you believed it.

Her dark hair in a ponytail—last time you saw her.

You confront her over Christmas. She opened her door and the first thing you saw in her eyes wasn't fury or resentment, not even indifference. It was hurt. She immediately looked away and you swallowed the lump in your throat blurted out that you were sorry.

Things were bridged to say the least and you kept noticing how much she had changed. She sighed, put her hand on your arm and you felt that tingly zap.

It's okay, she said, smiling a little. We're best friends.

But you never really were after that. There was one visit with your two's other best friend. She had on an orange blouse and cargo Capri's and her cell phone was sticking out of her pocket.

Her hands were clasped and she kept looking at you like she wanted to say something more. She kept smiling at you like you were still her best friend. And you know no one ever really replaced her.

No one ever really measured up. You have more friends now than when she was your best friend but you all were so tainted back then. No one has her smile or her quirks or her flair.

You never really thought it was cute for anyone else to absolutleyhaveto catch every Dr. Phil episode.

So you both went on. With making new friends and with the not saying anything. You ignored each other at the mall and the Laundromat when you came home, only occasionally allowing a smile or a cheerful, forced hey. Your other two friends would act like the tension wasn't there. They flip their hands and roll their eyes and God would you two just get over it already?

Until one day…that day. She calls your friend and you're there and you act like it's okay for her to come over. You yell a loud hi in the background and you can hear her giggle over the receiver and you feel the nostalgic, long forgotten clenching in your chest.

What was weird was that it wasn't. She walked in and all the tension just melted away and you laughed and shoved and felt just like things used to be. You were more mature, of course, more experienced and a hell of a lot wiser, but things just were and for the first time in a long while you were okay with that.

So there she is and here you are and all of a sudden everything is put back into place. Where it was always supposed to be. You had programmed it into your head, forced yourself to believe that she was always just going to be there and you right beside her and there would be plenty of time to say the things that need to be said.

There would be plenty of time for you to figure out if her hands were really as soft as they looked.

The world really doesn't stop for you to adjust and it certainly doesn't wait. Days of phone calls and long, silly conversations go by and you keep wondering why you even stopped being friends.

You sit on top of your car and stare out into the sky that just seems so vast and open and tangible. You remember those moments—quiet eons—filled with silence so loud and drawn out that you didn't need to fill it. You wanted to say so much to her but the words would always get stuck in your throat and you would end up letting them die there; you knew she felt the same.

You walk over to her house and she opens the door and her hairs wet and curling, cheeks pink and face scrubbed. She had on a bright yellow dress that ended above her knees and you remember her toes, painted a dark purple, clicking on the tile of her kitchen floor.

She was reaching for something—peanut butter, maybe—in the cabinet and she whipped around and you were right behind her and before you knew it, you pressed your lips to hers that were warm and moist.

You two stood there, lips touching and hearts pounding and blood roaring in your ears. There was a racket in the other room and she drew away, a hint of a smile on her face and she scurried down the hall and left you standing there, more confused and relieved than you've been in a long while.

It's never mentioned and you're pretty sure you like it that way.

Things are semi-same. She still smiles like sunshine and you still murmur dirty jokes and there is still that flow of exhilaration between the two of you. But the memory of her lips—soft, smooth, damp—is burned into your mind and curled in long for a stay.

When you think of her you think of the sun beating down on the sidewalk, coffee ice cream, the feeling of dirt and flower stems in your shoes. You think of those long, scorching summer days running around neighborhood and scavenging the grocery store for something to cool you down, and all those nights filled with deep conversations and big belly laughs and sighs.

Here you are.

There she is.

It's dark and quiet and the stars and the moon are shining down on her dark hair and her green eyes glint out into the starlight. Somewhere in the conversation your hands meet and your palm presses against her and swear to God she can hear your heart through your chest.

You're hit with that now or never feeling and you don't know why. You struggle to say something—anything, really—like how you love that she arranges plates according to color or how she always had to repaint her nails once a week.

You want to tell her nineteen years of being her friend; you would have never guessed this would happen. You're not supposed to feel like this towards your best friend and yet it doesn't feel wrong. It doesn't matter that she's a girl or that you know your father won't approve.

As you look at her, you know she knows, even before you did probably, and she puts a hand to your cheek.

It's okay, she says.

So you kiss her. Deliberately, with the intention of letting her know it.

You can feel her smile, and return the gesture.