Beverly sat on the examination table, her legs dangling over the edge, the crinkle of the paper gown sharp and grating in the sterile hush of the room. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, their cold glow leaching warmth from her skin. Her fingers twisted together in her lap—pale, trembling, and marked.

The red rings stared back at her, angry and swollen, as if burned into her flesh. They weren’t smooth like rashes or welts. The edges were raised in tiny, curling ridges, irregular and almost… organic.

She traced one absently, shuddering at the wrongness of it. The texture was off—not rough, not soft, but something in between, something yielding yet firm. It didn’t feel like her. Not anymore.

Rubbery. Alien.

The door creaked open, and Beverly flinched, pulling the flimsy paper gown tighter around herself.

Dr. Patel stepped in, clipboard in hand, her crisp white coat a contrast to the warmth in her smile. She was a reassuring presence—calm, collected, the kind of person who had seen it all before.

“So, Ms. Anderson,” Dr. Patel said, scanning the chart. “Tell me what’s been going on.”

Beverly swallowed, her throat dry. Slowly, she turned her hands palm-up, revealing the grotesque red rings.

“They started about a week ago,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “At first, just my hands and feet. But now…” She hesitated, then tugged up the hem of the gown, exposing her calves. The rings climbed her skin in irregular patterns, curling up her legs like invasive vines.

Dr. Patel frowned slightly, pulling on a pair of gloves. “May I?”

Beverly nodded, biting her lip as the doctor ran her fingertips over the raised edges of one of the rings.

The contact sent a ripple through her nerves—something between a shiver and a recoil. She twitched involuntarily, an unpleasant heat prickling under her skin.

“They itch, don’t they?” Dr. Patel asked, her voice calm but attentive.

Beverly let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “Yes, but it’s more than that. My skin… it feels wrong. Rough, like rubber or plastic. And sometimes I swear—” She cut herself off, shaking her head.

“Swear what?” Dr. Patel prompted.

Beverly hesitated. “It doesn’t feel attached. Like my body is…” She clenched her jaw. Saying it out loud felt ridiculous. “Like it’s turning into something else.”

Dr. Patel’s pen scratched against the chart. “You say this started suddenly? No previous conditions—eczema, allergies, autoimmune issues?”

“No,” Beverly said firmly. “Nothing. It just… started.”

The doctor leaned back, studying her thoughtfully. “It could be a few things—lichen planus, granuloma annulare, or even an unusual autoimmune response. We’ll run some tests.”

Tests. A slow, twisting dread coiled in Beverly’s stomach. She had wanted immediate answers, something solid. Not this.

“I’m prescribing a topical corticosteroid cream for now,” Dr. Patel continued. “It should help with the inflammation and itching. But Beverly…” Her gaze softened. “I know this must be frightening. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Beverly nodded numbly. The words barely registered. A hollow reassurance, spoken through a thick pane of glass.

---

Back at her condo, Beverly stood in front of the bathroom mirror, staring at herself. She looked… wrong.

Her skin was pale, the rings stark against it like brands. Her once-lustrous hair hung limp around her face, and dark shadows rimmed her eyes. She barely recognized the woman in the glass.

With slow, careful movements, she uncapped the tube of cream and spread it over her arms and legs. The coolness was a brief relief—but the moment she stopped, the itching returned worse. It crawled beneath her skin, relentless, like something alive.

Her fingers twitched. She clenched them into fists. It was getting worse.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. She didn’t need to look to know it was Angele or Joanna. They had been calling, texting, reaching out all week. But Beverly had ignored every attempt. How could she face them now, after what she had done?

She sank onto the couch, pulling a blanket around herself like armor. The room was dark except for the flickering glow of the TV, its muted images blending into meaningless shapes. Finally, in desperation, she called her mother.

“Beverly, honey? What’s wrong?” Her mother’s voice was warm, familiar—a lifeline.

Beverly clutched the phone tighter. “Mom… is there anything in our family medical history I should know about? Allergies, diseases, anything strange?”

A pause. “Not that I can think of. Why? Are you feeling sick?”

“No,” Beverly lied. “Just a work thing. A medical questionnaire.”

Her mother hummed thoughtfully. “Well, your great-aunt Mildred had rheumatoid arthritis. And one of your cousins is gluten-intolerant. But nothing unusual.”

Nothing that explained this.

“Mom,” she asked hesitantly, “was I… normal? When I was little?”

Her mother laughed softly. “Of course you were, sweetheart. You were a bright, happy little girl. Why would you ask that?”

Beverly opened her mouth, then closed it again. How could she explain the storm inside her? The fear, the shame, the certainty that something was deeply, irreversibly wrong?

“I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I guess I’m just feeling lost.”

Her mother’s tone softened. “Oh, honey. Everyone feels that way sometimes. But you’re my beautiful, perfect daughter. No matter what, I will always love you.”

Tears welled in Beverly’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks. “Thanks, Mom. I love you too.”

After the call, she curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow to her chest. The longing for comfort, for connection, was unbearable. She thought of Angele and Joanna, of their warmth and laughter, and the ache in her chest deepened. She had ruined everything. And it was getting worse.

She tried to sleep, but at some point, she woke with a start. The room was silent except for her own breathing. Something felt off.

She shifted beneath the blanket—and froze. Her arms… felt different. Slowly, she lifted her hand to the dim light of the TV. Her fingers looked longer. More flexible. The joints—had they moved?

She turned her hand over. Her skin shone faintly in the low light. Smooth. Slick. Like something that belonged in water.

A chill ran through her.

Beverly curled her fingers into a fist, pressing them against her chest as if trying to hold herself together.

She didn’t know what was happening to her. But she knew one thing for certain. This wasn’t going to stop.

It was only the beginning.

Not. The. End.

Beverly found herself adrift in the cozy ambiance of Angele and Joanna’s living room, a realm where laughter danced freely through the air and the warmth of companionship seemed to permeate every corner. The space, illuminated by the soft, golden glow of string lights artfully arranged by Joanna, felt like a haven from the storm of her own emotions. Lavender-scented candles flickered gently on the coffee table, their light casting playful shadows on the walls and infusing the air with a calming, fragrant haze.

Angele and Joanna moved through the space with effortless grace, their laughter a melody that harmonized with the clink of dishes and the rustle of conversation. But for Beverly, every sound seemed muffled, every moment surreal, as though she were a spectator in her own life. Beneath the veneer of idyllic gathering, she wrestled with a tumult of unsaid words, her meticulously rehearsed confessions dissolving into the ether.

Angele, with an empathy as intuitive as her smile was gentle, approached Beverly and sat beside her on the couch. Her presence was a balm, her luminous green eyes searching Beverly’s face with quiet concern. “Is everything okay, Bev? You seem a little… distant tonight.” Her voice, soft and soothing, carried the weight of genuine care.

In those verdant depths, Beverly saw her fears reflected back at her but also an unwavering kindness that beckoned her to abandon the safety of silence. Her mouth opened, a string of words tumbling forward in her mind, but none made it past her lips. Instead, compelled by a force greater than fear, she leaned into the space between them, her lips finding Angele’s in a kiss that was both a question and an answer.

The world narrowed to the warmth of Angele’s lips, the faint taste of wine mingling with the softness of her skin. Beverly’s heart thundered, and for a brief, suspended moment, it felt as though everything had fallen into place. But reality, with its cruel penchant for timing, intruded abruptly. Angele withdrew, her expression a canvas of shock and confusion, her hands hovering near Beverly’s shoulders as if unsure whether to push away or pull closer.

“I… I’m so sorry,” Beverly faltered, retreating into the shell of her anxieties. Her voice cracked under the weight of regret. “I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Joanna, who had been setting down a tray of drinks, froze mid-step. Her dark eyes darted between the two women, her face a mixture of surprise and concern. “Beverly, wait—”

But Beverly was already retreating, propelled by a maelstrom of embarrassment and self-reproach. The sound of Angele calling after her rang in her ears, but it only spurred her legs to move faster. She stumbled out of the condo, her vision blurring with unshed tears.

By the time Beverly reached her own place, her breath was coming in ragged gasps. She slammed the door behind her and leaned against it, her trembling hands pressed to the cool wood. Her heart was a wild drumbeat, her mind a cacophony of conflicting thoughts.

What had she done? Had she just ruined everything, destroyed the most meaningful friendship she’d ever had, all because she couldn’t control her own emotions?

Sliding down the door to the floor, Beverly buried her face in her hands. She felt like she was coming apart at the seams, her carefully constructed life unraveling before her eyes.

She kissed a woman. For the first time in her life, she had crossed that invisible line, acted on feelings she had been trying so hard to ignore. And now, in the aftermath, Beverly felt like her entire world had been turned upside down.

It was one thing to fantasize about Angele and Joanna, to imagine what it might be like to hold them, touch them, to be with them in a way that went beyond friendship. But actually doing it—feeling the warmth of Angele’s breath, the way her lips trembled against Beverly’s—was something else entirely. It was electric, exhilarating… and terrifying.

Beverly considered herself straight. She had dated men, loved a few of them. The idea of being attracted to a woman, of wanting to kiss and touch and be with another female, had never even crossed her mind. Until Angele. Until Joanna. Until now.

And now, with a single impulsive action, Beverly had shattered the illusion of her own certainty and crossed a line she could never uncross. She felt like a stranger in her own skin, like everything she had ever known about herself was suddenly called into question.

But even worse than the confusion and self-doubt was the crushing weight of rejection. The look on Angele’s face—shock, confusion, and something unreadable—was seared into Beverly’s mind, a painful reminder of her own foolishness.

How could she have been so reckless? So stupid? How could she have risked everything—thrown away the most important friendship of her life—for a fleeting impulse?

Beverly’s chest heaved with silent sobs, her tears hot and relentless. As she curled into herself, a prickling sensation began to creep across her skin, starting in the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands. It was faint at first, like the brush of tiny needles, but it quickly grew into a persistent itch.

Frowning, Beverly held up her hands, squinting at them in the dim light of the living room. At first, they looked normal. But as she turned them over, her breath caught. Faint, red rings were forming on her palms, thin and perfectly circular. The skin beneath them tingled with an unnatural warmth.

A chill ran down her spine. Were they hives? Some kind of allergic reaction to the stress? Or something worse?

Her mind raced with possibilities, each more terrifying than the last. Ringworm, eczema, a rare autoimmune disorder… The red rings seemed to mock her, a physical manifestation of the chaos within. As her tears subsided, her focus sharpened on the patterns spreading across her skin. She couldn’t shake the sensation that this was more than a coincidence.

Her breath hitched as the faint red lines began to pulse, the rhythm matching the frantic beat of her heart.

Beverly hugged her knees to her chest, rocking back and forth. She had never felt so alone, so lost in the sea of her own making. She knew she should call someone, but the thought of explaining what had happened was too much to bear. For now, all she could do was sit in the darkness, nursing her broken heart and shattered illusions, and pray that somehow, someday, she would find a way to put the pieces back together.

Even if she knew, deep down, that nothing would ever be the same again.

Not. The. End.

In the subsequent days after her heartfelt revelation to Samantha, Beverly found herself ensnared in a tempest of anticipation and trepidation. It was as if she were a stringed instrument, each nerve within her tightened to a pitch, resonating with the slightest touch. She understood the path that lay before her, a route carved out by her burgeoning feelings, yet each attempt to traverse it saw her courage scattering like leaves in the wind.

Inviting Angele and Joanna to dinner had been a decision born of determination. As she maneuvered around her kitchen, the simmering sauce before her a mirror to the bubbling anxiety within, Beverly rehearsed the confession locked within her heart. Yet, the closer the moment of revelation drew, the more entangled her thoughts became, a knotted mess from which no clear thread could be drawn.

Angele and Joanna’s arrival, cloaked in their effortless grace, seemed to dissolve Beverly’s resolve into wisps of smoke. Their laughter, a melody that had become the sweetest refrain in Beverly’s life, filled the spaces of her home, leaving little room for the weight of her confession.

“I… I actually wanted to talk to you both about something,” Beverly ventured, her voice a fragile whisper against the clink of wine glasses and the warmth of shared smiles. Her heart was a wild creature within her chest, pounding against the confines of her ribcage with a desperate intensity.

The exchange of looks between Angele and Joanna, a silent communication laced with curiosity and support, was a balm to Beverly’s frayed edges.

“Of course, Bev,” Joanna’s voice was a soft encouragement, a beacon in the tumultuous seas of Beverly’s emotions. “You know you can tell us anything.”

Yet, as Beverly teetered on the precipice of her confession, a knock at the door shattered the moment, a rude intrusion that sent her heart skittering into the recesses of her throat.

“Beverly, dear, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I just had a new stove installed, and I have no idea how to work it, and now I smell gas. Could you come take a look?” Mrs. Goldstein, her neighbor, stood as a harbinger of interruption, her plea for assistance pulling Beverly away from the sanctuary of her imminent confession.

Beverly glanced back at the table, where Angele and Joanna were watching with concerned expressions. “I… of course, Mrs. Goldstein. Just give me one moment.”

She hurried back to the table, an apology already forming on her lips. “I’m so sorry, I need to go help Mrs. Goldstein with something. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Angele and Joanna nodded understandingly, but Beverly could see the curiosity still lingering in their eyes. She cursed herself for not speaking up sooner, for letting the moment slip away.

The shift in atmosphere upon Beverly’s return was palpable, the thread of intimacy frayed by the interruption. Angele’s laughter and Joanna’s vibrant storytelling filled the air, a reminder of the missed opportunity that hung heavy around Beverly.

The remainder of the evening unfolded like a play in which Beverly was a spectator rather than a participant. Each attempt to steer the conversation back to the shores of her confession was thwarted by the ebb and flow of dialogue, leaving her stranded in the silence of her unspoken words.

As Angele and Joanna departed, their warm embraces were a reminder of the confession that remained caged within Beverly’s heart. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promised, a vow to herself as much as to them. “There’s… there’s something I really need to talk to you about.”

The enigmatic exchange of glances between them offered no solace to Beverly’s tumultuous heart. Closing the door behind them, she was left to confront the reflections of her hesitation, a silent echo of the words that had gone unsaid.

In the solitude of her home, Beverly faced the reality of her situation. Tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow, there would be no interruptions, no excuses, no holding back.

Not. The. End.

Beverly sat amidst the soft symphony of the bustling coffee shop, the world around her a blur of murmured conversations, hissing steam from the espresso machine, and the occasional clink of ceramic mugs. The warm aroma of roasted coffee beans enveloped her, but it did little to calm the storm within. Samantha Sturtz, her publisher and confidant, sat across the small wooden table, a beacon of expectation and curiosity.

Beverly’s fingers danced nervously around her ceramic cup, tracing the edge as though it might reveal some hidden answer. Months had passed since she had last added to the manuscript, and the weight of that silence loomed between them, an unspoken tension carried in the air.

“So,” Samantha began, cutting through the ambient noise with her crisp yet warm voice. Her piercing eyes sparkled with a mix of curiosity and amusement, as though she were savoring a delicious secret. “I read the chapters you sent me last night.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, her gaze unwavering. “Beverly, this is incredible stuff. The depth of emotion, the vivid imagery… it’s like nothing I’ve seen from you before. What’s your secret?”

Beverly’s cheeks flushed with a heat that spread like wildfire. She ducked her head, trying to disguise her embarrassment in the steam rising from her coffee. Her muses—Angele and Joanna—swirled at the edges of her thoughts. Their laughter, their kindness, the way they made her feel alive again… it was all tangled up in the pages Samantha had praised. But saying it out loud? That felt impossible.

“I… I guess I’ve just been feeling really inspired lately,” she murmured, her voice trembling like the leaf of a sapling in a storm. She toyed with the hem of her sleeve, her gaze flickering to the swirling latte art in her cup. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with my new neighbors, Angele and Joanna. They’ve really helped me break through my writer’s block.”

Samantha’s eyebrow arched slightly, her expression curious but kind. “Angele and Joanna, huh? The way you write about the connection between these characters… it’s so intimate, so charged. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had feelings for them.”

Beverly’s heart skipped a beat, her pulse drumming in her ears. She tried to laugh, but it came out thin, almost brittle. “That’s… that’s not…” Her words faltered, crumbling under the weight of the truth she had buried.

Samantha’s hand reached across the table, warm and steady, anchoring Beverly in the moment. Her voice softened, coaxing rather than pressing. “Hey, it’s okay. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. But as your friend, not just your publisher, I want you to know there’s no judgment here. The heart wants what it wants, you know?”

Beverly felt her defenses crumbling, the walls she’d carefully constructed beginning to yield. Tears welled in her eyes, unbidden but unstoppable, and her voice cracked under their weight. “I… I think I’m falling for them, Sam. Both of them. But I’m scared. I’ve never felt this way about women before, and I don’t know if they feel the same way. What if I’m wrong? What if I ruin everything?”

Samantha’s gaze was steady, her tone firm but compassionate. “From what you’ve told me about Angele and Joanna, it sounds like they care about you a great deal. And the way you write about them… it’s clear that your connection is something special. I can’t tell you what to do, but I think you owe it to yourself to be honest about your feelings. Even if it’s scary, even if it’s unfamiliar. You deserve to be happy, Beverly.”

Beverly let out a shaky exhale, Samantha’s words like a hand pulling her from the depths. She nodded, the beginnings of a fragile smile tugging at her lips. “Thanks, Sam. I… I’ll think about it.”

As Beverly left the coffee shop, the cool evening air kissed her cheeks, grounding her in the present. Her thoughts churned, a blend of fear and tentative hope swirling like autumn leaves in the wind.

Not. The. End.

Beverly stared at her phone, the faint glow illuminating her face as the last rays of sunlight filtered through her window. Joanna’s message danced on the screen, simple but brimming with invitation:

“Hey Bev, Angele and I are going stargazing tonight at the park. We’d love for you to join us if you’re free. Bring a blanket and some snacks to share!”

Her chest tightened with an odd mix of joy and trepidation. The thought of spending the evening with Angele and Joanna beneath the vast night sky thrilled her in a way she hadn’t anticipated. Yet the pull she felt toward them—a magnetic, unspoken connection—was tinged with uncertainty. Was this an innocent gathering among neighbors, or did the undercurrents she felt coursing between them hint at something more?

Pushing aside her doubts, she tapped out a reply, her fingers moving faster than her second-guessing thoughts. “Sounds great! I’ll bring some cookies. See you at 8!”

By the time she arrived at the park, the sky had transformed into a watercolor masterpiece, streaked with fiery oranges melting into soft indigos. She spotted Angele and Joanna on a grassy knoll, silhouetted by the waning light. They were a tableau of effortless connection—Angele reclining on an oversized blanket, her auburn hair catching the last blush of sunset, while Joanna rummaged through a picnic basket, her laughter carrying on the cool evening breeze.

“Perfect timing!” Angele’s voice rang out, warm and inviting. She gestured for Beverly to join them.

Joanna looked up and smiled, offering a wine glass filled with ruby-red liquid. “Glad you could make it. I hope you’re ready for the best stargazing spot in the city.”

“Absolutely,” Beverly replied, her voice soft but eager. She spread her blanket beside theirs and settled in, the cool grass beneath her a grounding contrast to the electricity thrumming in her veins.

As twilight gave way to darkness, the first stars emerged, faint at first but soon multiplying in breathtaking clusters. Beverly tilted her head back, her eyes tracing the constellations. The world seemed to shrink, leaving only the three of them and the infinite sky.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Joanna’s voice broke the silence, her tone reverent. She lay stretched out beside Beverly, her head resting on her palm. “Every time I look up at the stars, I’m reminded how small we are. It’s humbling, in the best way.”

Beverly nodded, her gaze fixed on the heavens. “It’s strange. Looking up, I feel both insignificant and… connected. Like I’m part of something vast and unknowable.”

Angele, who had been lying back with her hands behind her head, turned to them with a grin. “That’s the magic of it, isn’t it? The stars hold so many stories—some we know, and some we’ll never understand. That mystery… it’s what inspires my art.”

“What do you mean?” Beverly asked, curious.

Angele propped herself up on one elbow, her green eyes catching the faint starlight. “When I paint, I think about the universe—how chaotic and unpredictable it is. I try to capture a fraction of that energy on canvas. It’s messy, but it feels real.”

Joanna chuckled. “Her studio looks like a supernova exploded in it. Paint everywhere.”

“Art’s not meant to be tidy,” Angele quipped, nudging Joanna playfully.

The banter between them was easy and unforced, but Beverly couldn’t ignore the way their touches lingered, the unspoken language that passed between them. She felt both like an intruder and an honored guest, caught in the gravitational pull of their world.

As the night deepened, their conversation turned to dreams and fears. Joanna spoke of her travels, weaving vivid tales of mountain peaks kissed by clouds and bustling markets steeped in spice-scented air. Angele shared her hopes for her next gallery show, her voice tinged with both excitement and vulnerability.

When the conversation circled to Beverly, she hesitated, her words faltering like a flickering flame. “I… I’ve always dreamed of writing something that matters. Something people connect with. But sometimes, it feels like I’m just shouting into the void.”

Angele placed a hand on Beverly’s knee, her touch grounding. “Your voice matters, Beverly. Never doubt that.”

Joanna’s smile was soft but certain. “And shouting into the void? That’s how stars are born.”

The warmth of their presence enveloped Beverly, a balm to the raw edges of her self-doubt. She lay back, her head resting against Angele’s shoulder, while Joanna’s fingers absentmindedly traced patterns on her arm. Together, they watched as a meteor streaked across the sky, its brief brilliance a testament to fleeting beauty.

Beverly exhaled slowly and allowed herself to simply be—to exist in the moment, unburdened by the weight of her questions.

As the night stretched on, the stars seemed to whisper promises of wonder and possibility. And Beverly dared to believe them.

Not. The. End.