Enemies to Lovers

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This story has its roots in a real-life, really intense friendship I was in a number of years ago. That relationship never became sexual or romantic, never even had the possibility of that, but I did find myself wondering recently what it would have been like if it had played out differently.

The format of this story is unconventional. It contains no dialogue, has far too many commas instead of the em dashes, ellipses, and parenthesis I usually use in abundance, switches between the two characters frequently, and violates the ‘show don’t tell’ rule more often than not. I know not everyone is going to like it, but it just felt right for this story. To me, it almost reads someone interviewed the two characters about how their relationship came to be, and then wrote an article summarizing the interview.

Let me know what you think about the story and the format. If feedback is positive, I’ll try to write the brief follow up I have planned. It probably won’t be in the same format, but I won’t know for sure until I start writing it.

Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!



At first, we were enemies. Well, not exactly enemies, but we certainly didn’t get along. Which was a big problem, considering she was my supervisor at work.

My very first day on the job, she gave me a task that I was almost guaranteed to fail at. It was something that didn’t play to my strengths and I had no idea why she assigned that task to me when there were other members of the team who were a) already familiar with the project because they had been hired at the start as opposed to a couple weeks in like I was, and b) were more suited to the task.

I did my best at it that day, and she reassigned me to a different part of the project the next day, but it was the start to a long, frustrating, contentious nine months. I had no idea what she had against me, why she picked on me, why she was constantly criticizing my work in front of the other team members.


I was intimidated by her. That’s the reason.

People consider me intimidating, and it’s a title I wear proudly. I’m tall, broad, an imposing presence. She’s tiny, like pixie-size. But she made me feel insecure, like I was underqualified, even though I had a master’s degree and quite a few years of experience more than she had. She was far more qualified than the rest of the team members, didn’t need nearly as much training as they did, and picked up the complex concepts like it was easy as pie.

It was also because she was so beautiful it was almost painful to behold. Like you couldn’t look directly at her because you would just freeze, like a deer caught in headlights. Like I finally understood what it meant when people would say something or someone was ‘stunning.’ And it didn’t make sense that someone so gorgeous would be doing such a mundane job. People who looked like that worked as models or celebrities, not as my subordinates. So yeah, that was intimidating as fuck.

There wasn’t much I could do about her beauty, other than keep from looking at her whole face. I’d look at her forehead instead of at her piercing green eyes. I’d look at her ear instead of at her perfect, sculpted nose, or I’d look at her chin instead of at her lush lips. That worked for the most part, although I did sometimes still get stunned when looking at her.

But I could do something about feeling unqualified compared to her. I totally knew what I was doing when I gave her that task she was completely not qualified or suited for. I needed to see her struggle, I needed to know that there were still some things that I was better at, still some things she needed to learn, still some things I could teach her. I needed to know that she was human.

I felt relieved when she struggled with the task. And also a bit guilty that I assigned it in the first place. But I was never going to make it through the project with my dignity and self-respect intact if I didn’t knock her down a few notches in my head.

Even after that, I still struggled with the dynamic. I don’t know if it was our personalities clashing, my need to control all the variables and her need for independence, or the fact that she was still so fucking gorgeous and that wasn’t going to change. Or maybe I was just inventing ways to antagonize her, just because I could. I was pretty nasty to her. That’s not something I’m proud of.


If I’m being honest, I contributed to some of the contention. I wasn’t going to just let her dish it out without standing up for myself, so I did. I spoke back in front of the other team members, spoke about her behind her back, and took some creative liberties with the tasks I was given. Only when I thought it would better the result, not to sabotage the project or anything. But she definitely didn’t like that, and made it clear as such.

When the nine months of hell were over, I did what I always do. I apologized. I knew she was partially to blame. And I’m not a suck Çanakkale Escort up. I just can’t stand people not liking me.

To my surprise, she apologized back.


I was planning on apologizing to her, I promise. She just beat me to it. Also I may have been scared of being vulnerable and may have not had the courage to reach out. But her honesty and vulnerability really impressed me and made it feel like it was okay for me to open up. And it helped that I was no longer her supervisor, so I didn’t have to worry about upsetting the power balance. In hindsight, I realize that was a really shitty worry. You can be honest and vulnerable and still maintain your position, as long as you do it with appropriate boundaries. But I didn’t know how to do that at that time.

I was kind of shocked how accepting and forgiving she was. It impressed me and made me want to get to know her better. For the first time since that very first day, I deliberately looked directly at her. Even with her still looking unsure and vulnerable, her beauty was still dazzling. It hurt to look at her, but I pushed through, and found that it was worth it. Because when she smiled, her smile lit up my very soul.

And I needed more of that, so ever so tentatively, I extended an invitation to spend some time together. She accepted, and we went out for ice cream the next day.

I consider it to be our first date. But she disagrees.


It definitely wasn’t our first date. Not as a couple, at least. We were just friends at that point, and maybe not even that yet. Plus it was super awkward, trying to navigate the new dynamic for the first time.

Two nights later, we spoke on the phone for nearly five hours, late into the night, discussing anything and everything under the sun. Late the next morning, I woke up to a text from her saying she was thinking of me.

My heart fluttered.

I responded that I’d been thinking about her too. And I didn’t stop thinking about her for the rest of the day. And the next day, and the day after that, and the whole long weekend.

We texted and emailed constantly, updates about how our vacation between projects was going, how nervous we were about meeting our new project teams, little things like “I saw a pretty flower” and big things like “I think my need to control everything stems from childhood trauma.”

And huge things like “love ya” tacked onto the end of an email wishing me goodnight.

My heart did a lengthy gymnastics routine after that one.


I don’t know what possessed me to write it. It had only been a week and a half since our first date/not-a-date. We hadn’t even seen each other since going out for ice cream because we had made separate vacation plans. Yeah we emailed and texted all day, but it’s not the same as spending time in person.

And yet, it was enough.

My emotions were on a rollercoaster all week. Impatience while waiting for her to reply to my messages, disappointment when a text or email came in from someone else, pure elation when she responded, and then back to the beginning for another go.

I was developing feelings for her and I didn’t know what to make of them. I’d never been with a woman before, never even considered that I wasn’t straight. But I couldn’t deny the lip tingling, heart racing, face flushing that I got every time I thought about her. And I thought about her all the time.

I got to work early on our first day back after vacation, and left a message for her with the receptionist. The message said she should meet me upstairs in an empty office, to help me with something I needed to bring downstairs.

I didn’t actually need to bring anything downstairs.


I was really confused when the receptionist gave me the message. I didn’t understand why she didn’t just text me. I got my answer a few moments after I walked into the empty office: pretext. An alibi, if you will.

She had been leaning against an unused desk, and jumped up when my feet crossed the threshold of the room.

She pressed me against the door and cupped my face in her hands. She gazed into my eyes like I was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, then bent down and pressed her lips to mine.

Fireworks exploded in my chest and in my underwear.

At 22, I was still trying to figure out my sexuality, but all from a theoretical point of view. I grew up in a more conservative community where exploring your sexuality was frowned upon, to say the least. I knew I wasn’t straight, but I didn’t have the opportunity to figure out what exactly my sexuality was, especially because I lived with my parents while attending the local community college for undergrad.

All that’s to say, that was my first kiss. And not just with a woman. My first kiss ever.


I wasn’t actually planning on kissing her. The one thing we didn’t speak about on that extended phone call or mention in all our texts and emails was our sexuality. Çanakkale Escort Bayan I didn’t know how to broach the subject without having her think I was coming on to her.

But seeing her standing there ignited a fire in my core. I’m not usually one to take chances, but I took that one. When she leaned in and began kissing back, I intensified our kiss.

I’ve kissed and fucked plenty of guys, and I certainly enjoyed it, but never had it felt that amazing to have my lips touch someone else’s. I forced away all thoughts and doubts and questions like “what does this mean” and “am I bisexual” and tried to focus on just our kiss and the things it was doing to my body.

If just thinking about her made my lips tingle, my heart race, and my face flush, kissing her electrified my lips, broke records with my heartbeat, and colored my face a red that would make Cupid green with envy.

And then there were the other things. A steady, smoldering heat in my core. An ache in my pussy. And moisture in my panties.

That definitely never happened before.


A peek into my mind via the thoughts that I had while we were kissing, in this order:

1) Holy fuck I’m having my first kiss!

2) This feels fucking amazing!

3) I’m kissing a woman.

4) Does this mean I’m gay?

5) Why am I only having my first kiss now? Why did I not try this earlier? Maybe I would have been less of a mess if I’d actually figured out my sexuality ages ago. It’s been a whole minute and we’re still kissing. I like this. I really like this. I really really like this. Oh my fucking gosh I’m gay. I’m gay. I’m gay!! Fuuuuuuuck.

I don’t think I can truly describe the kiss — my first kiss! — because I was stuck in my mind for most of it. But I will say this: it felt like Macy’s held their entire July 4th fireworks show inside of me. In my chest and in my underwear. And I did not want it to end.


All good things must come to an end. In this case, our kiss was the good thing. And the reason why it had to end was because we both had to clock in and go to our respective project rooms to meet our new teams and kick off the next nine months.

I slowly peeled my lips from hers and leaned my head back. At some point, my hands had become entwined in her long, silky, light brown hair, and I gently slid them out. As I began to step back, I realized her tiny hands were still on my wide hips.

I made eye contact with her for the first time since we began kissing. Her green eyes were lit up like the world’s largest menorah on the last night of Hanukkah. Her cheeks were flushed and her lips swollen and rosy.

And I realized, all that? I did that.

And for some reason, that scared me. It brought back all the insecurity, all the vulnerability I had been feeling. It was too much and it hurt and I couldn’t stand it anymore.

I mumbled something about having to clock in and make sure my project room was set up, then did the last thing I wanted to do. I bolted.


Her abrupt exit left me dazed. Things were going so well. What could have caused her to flee? I know I didn’t say anything. And I’m pretty sure my facial expression projected “I want more of this” and not “get away from me.” So why?

I stood there for a minute or two, shaken, then took a deep breath and headed downstairs to clock in.

I had trouble concentrating the rest of the day, which didn’t bode well for me as far as first impressions go.

When the day was over, my new teammates decided to go out for drinks. I tagged along so it didn’t seem like I was trying to be asocial, but my heart wasn’t into it. I wasn’t upset or angry or anything, just confused.

As much as I willed it to chime, my phone stayed silent all day and all night.


To say I had a difficult day was an understatement. Try training, supervising, and staying level-headed while your heart and your head battle it out for the right to berate you into the ground.

The fact of the matter was that I messed up. Big time. And while every fiber of my being was yelling at me to go and talk to her, to explain, I just couldn’t.

She texted me late that night, saying she’d like to talk about what happened that day, but I didn’t respond. I didn’t know how.

Four days passed before I could even entertain the thought of facing her again.


Our workplace wasn’t big, and there weren’t that many places she could be if she wasn’t in her project room or in the break room. But somehow, she managed to avoid me for days.

My text stayed on read.

In the meantime, maybe to distract myself and maybe not, I fully embraced my discovery that I was gay.

I tried to watch wlw porn, scoured the internet for pictures and videos of openly gay actresses and female celebrities, even tried reading sapphic erotica, and it turned me on, but nothing compared to kissing her.

So I focused my attention on the externals. Escort Çanakkale In just a couple of days, I went from looking like your standard femme girl wearing dresses, heels, and a full face of makeup to donating almost all of my clothing and shoes, buying a new wardrobe of more masculine shirts, pants, and flats, adding a few extra piercings to one ear, and cutting my long hair into a 2015 Justin Bieber-type haircut. You know, short on the sides, long on the top, dyed blonde with longish brown roots.

It was 100% a cliché look, but after years of studiously burying my feelings, of barely even allowing myself to look closely at any woman so as not to risk possibly feeling attracted to them, I was finally ready to wholeheartedly accept my sexuality. And if that meant looking like a textbook soft butch, well then, I was going to look like a textbook soft butch. Sue me.


It was really hard avoiding her. I had a friend who worked in a different office on another floor, and she gave me the code to their bathroom, where I spent every non-working moment, except for lunch, which I ate in my car that I’d parked a couple blocks away.

You have to understand, I was terrified. As intimidating as people said I was, confrontation scared the hell out of me so I generally conscientiously avoided it. But when forced to confront, I’d always go overboard. And I didn’t want that to happen this time.

It took nearly a whole week before I could muster the courage to speak to her.


After years of living in my parents’ house, I’d finally gotten my own place, a small one-bedroom on the fifteenth floor of a high-rise, just five blocks from work. The rent was technically more than I could afford, but it was worth it, even if only to not feel suffocated by my parent’s sociopolitical views.

It was a rainy Sunday evening. I’d just finished preparing dinner and collapsed on the couch to eat while catching up on my shows, when the doorbell rang.

I wasn’t expecting any packages or visitors, so after putting down my food and dragging myself off the couch, I looked through the peephole to see who was there.


Standing there, waiting for her to answer the door, was one of the most nerve-wracking experiences in my life. I almost turned tail and bolted again, but I forced myself to stay put, planting my feet on the ground.

I took a few deep breaths as I heard her walk toward the door. I thought about smiling but knew it would come across as a grimace, so I just kept my face emotionless.

I almost didn’t recognize her when she opened the door. I’d so studiously avoided her and any office gossip about her the whole week that I didn’t even know about all the changes she’d made. But I knew it was her because I almost died looking at her.

I wasn’t about to complain though. It was certainly working on me. All week, I’d only had feelings like shame, guilt, and utter disappointment in myself. Standing there, I felt apprehensive, nervous, terrified. And yet, seeing her new look caused feelings of desire to break through. I wanted nothing more than to barge in and press my lips to hers.

It wasn’t easy holding myself back.


She was the only person I wanted to see and yet the last person I expected to see. After not hearing a peep from her for a whole week, I assumed whatever we had, whatever you wanted to call it, however short-lived it was, was over.

I’d resigned myself to never getting to call or text or email or kiss her again, yet here she was, standing at my threshold, looking simultaneously like she wanted to jump me and run away again.

I invited her inside and she whispered a thank you as I took her umbrella and jacket and showed her to the couch, where my dinner sat, now forgotten.

Before sitting down, I poured us each a glass of wine. Surely it could only make whatever was about to go down better and not worse.


I don’t know what I expected her reaction to me showing up at her apartment to be. She was perfectly courteous, leading me inside, pouring me a glass of wine. It felt so stiff, so formal. So different from just one week before when our lips were locked and our bodies passionately embracing.

I knew I needed to speak first, but I was tongue-tied. We sat in awkward silence for far too long, the quiet punctuated by our tentative sips of wine.

I tried a few times to speak, but found myself unable to put into words how I was feeling. Everything I’d rehearsed vanished from my mind.

She didn’t say anything, just waited for me to get my act together. At one point she got up and refrigerated the food that she’d moved onto the coffee table when she sat down on the couch. I immediately felt guilty at having interrupted her dinner and not even being able to say what I came to say, which only exacerbated my speechlessness.

Eventually, after far too long of us doing nothing but sitting and sipping at our wine uncomfortably, I put down my glass, gathered every bit of courage I had, cleared my throat, and opened myself to the sheer terror that is vulnerability.


Life hadn’t prepared me for anything like this. I didn’t know what to say or do, so I just sat there. I was hungry, but didn’t want to be rude. So I sat and waited.

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