Imogen, Obviously

by Becky Albertalli

Has everyone been constantly talking about sex this whole time, and I’ve just never picked up on the code?

“That’s actually my favorite Dr. Seuss book,” says Tessa. “I Don’t Fuck Around Underground.”

I’d be losing my mind over Tessa if I were queer.

I used to get a little hung up on certain girls when I was younger. Not always. Just sometimes. Especially if I found out they were queer.

Tessa starts typing, and the world shrinks to fit into three tiny dots. In my stomach: a shooting-star feeling, out of nowhere.

Not “Sweater Weather” the song, which TikTok says is yet another code for being bisexual. Kind of like lemon squares and cuffed jeans and not being able to sit in chairs normally.

The problem is, the more I worry about weirdness, the weirder I get. And the harder I try not to act like I have a crush, the more it’s starting to feel like one.

Only I can’t look away, because Tessa’s so cute, and her smile is like sunshine on water.

All these moments, scattered and separate. All these disconnected dots.

It feels bigger than I want it to be. Do I really have to announce this? Can’t I just feel something and live inside it while it’s happening and not analyze it to death?

All the times I said I’m straight. All the times everyone’s said I’m straight. There it was, underlined and written in bold. How could I miss it? Like finding Waldo and realizing he was never really hiding.

It’s like learning to read—the way the letters and phonemes click into place. That sudden burst of meaning.

Then she buries her face in the crook of my neck, and every breath she breathes feels like a love letter.

“It’s like there’s this idea that you have to earn your label through suffering. And then you have to prove it with who you date, how you dress, how other people perceive you.”

Maybe shared experiences shouldn’t be the foundation at all. Maybe it should be a promise to hold space for variation.