Chasing the Ghost of the One I Wanted

In another universe, I would have kissed her and not spent so much time wondering why I wanted to.

Each week, The Queer Love Project publishes an original essay. Want to submit your essay and add to our growing archive? Find our submission guidelines and more here.

Selene wasn’t supposed to matter to me—at least not at first.

Selene was my first boyfriend A’s best friend. They were inseparable, and I felt like an outsider. One year younger, but worlds apart. I was a 15-year-old girl from a middle-class Omani family. My life was scripted for me: excel in school, obey at home, marry a man. But kissing a girl? That wasn’t in the script, but I wasn’t following it anyway.

Our all-girls school in Muscat, the capital of our tiny Middle Eastern country on the edge of the Arabian peninsula, felt like a fortress. High walls and strict security ensured we couldn’t interact with anyone outside, exactly what our parents expected. To us girls, it seemed like the entire world lived by the same rules we did. But when it came time to apply for college, I chose a different path from my friends. While they applied to Sultan Qaboos University, I applied for a private scholarship to study abroad. I was beginning to question the script, to wonder if there was more to life than what was expected of me.

The year-long scholarship selection process shattered my suburban bubble. Suddenly, I was surrounded by girls without Hijabs and boys in unfamiliar clothes I’ve only seen in movies—a distorted version of Oman. 

And then there was A, my first-ever boyfriend. He introduced me to Selene, the girl I never told how much I loved. 

“Hey, I’m Selene—Cyan to you. No face today, just a shadow, but A says you’re pretty amazing.”

Cyan, the name she used online, and A met on a ’90s Wheel of Time forum that survived into the 2010s—not Reddit, but one of those niche communities run by fantasy-obsessed homeschoolers. Between gaming sessions, they’d chat on Google all day, living in a virtual space where distance didn’t exist. They were inseparable.

When I joined Selene, who was 16, and my 17-year-old boyfriend A in their virtual world, it felt like entering a new universe that exposed the limits of my own, making me question everything I knew.

The path set for me—school, obedience, marriage—felt narrow, like a game rigged with dead ends. Selene, an American living with her father in Shenzhen, China, seemed to have unlocked a freedom I hadn’t known I craved.

The idea that A and Selene were just friends didn’t make sense in my world. You either pursued marriage or had no contact with the opposite sex at all. A boy and a girl as friends? That simply didn’t happen. But that wasn’t the only thing I didn’t understand. 

At the time, I didn’t know I was into both women and men—bisexuality wasn’t something I’d recognized in myself yet. Though in middle school, rumors about me and my best friend Mina making out in the bathroom stalls were relentless, so much so that she dated her neighbor and flashed kissing photos to silence them. It didn’t work. All I knew was I expected to marry a man, maybe A, though even having a choice was radical in itself. The gossip didn’t stick because of Mina, they stuck because I had “queer” written all over me.

Despite my reluctance to admit it, I loved things other girls weren’t publicly into. Those of us who did kept those details quiet. Video games and fantasy novels weren’t for us girls; they didn’t make us gay, but they defied the roles we were meant to follow. I made things worse by refusing to hide them. Pretending to be someone else all day—at school and at home—was draining. I was open about my interests and my application for a private scholarship. Before long, the rumors shifted: Now they said I was trying to escape because my family had found out I was gay. It wasn’t true, but like most gossip, there was a grain of truth.

And then there was Selene. Though new to me, our shared love for fantasy novels and video games made her feel like someone I’d always known. We spent innumerable nights in the Rift, slaying minions and outsmarting champions. I never saw her face at that point, just her avatar—a blue-haired anime figure with sleepy purple eyes and a stardust shimmer. Her avatar was celestial and she was otherworldly. I was completely into it—into her. 

Whenever I wondered what she looked like, she’d simply say, “Nope haha, but one day, promise.”

It never felt strange. This anime fairy avatar on my screen validated my dreams, helping me with the essays I needed for the scholarship. My English was still rough; I’d only been formally studying it for four years and hadn’t yet fully transitioned to reading books in English. She was better than me, and without ever seeing her face, she became everything I aspired to be: mature, articulate, someone who didn’t take life too seriously, yet excelled at it.

“You’re speaking to me in my mother tongue,” she’d say. “You’re writing in English, my language. If anything, you’re ahead of me by a whole-ass language!” 

That was only partially true. She was learning Mandarin and speaking it well, but she tried to encourage me to commit to my experience. She encouraged me to commit to the person I was and the one I’m becoming—one who’s more comfortable with who they are. 

Then everything shifted. I got the scholarship. I was “running away.” At 16, I was leaving Oman, and my life was about to change in ways I couldn’t grasp yet. I moved to Victoria, Canada, for high school. Or rather, we moved, because by some miraculous feat—call it love, serendipity, or just a good old coincidence—my boyfriend A and I ended up in separate boarding schools in the same town in British Columbia.

In a sense, he and Selene traveled with me. Our routine of chatting, playing games, and editing each other’s homework remained largely unchanged, except that A joined us less frequently due to his bad internet. No matter, since I liked it that way. His presence, or lack of it, made little difference, and what were once inside jokes between him and Selene became mine and Selene’s. Still, some of me believed she preferred him, and that I was merely a placeholder until he was more available. He certainly conveyed as much.

“God, I wish I could see you, Cyan. It’s been too long.” 

I’d fallen asleep during one of our calls, and I woke up to my boyfriend A whispering to her, thinking I wasn’t paying attention.

I heard her agree. Then, there was a pause and a sigh. That yearning that I’d long supposed was meant for me was now being shared with A. 

Until that moment, I’d witnessed an undeniable chemistry between them—a love so synchronized, it felt like something out of a teenage flick. They talked like they’d rehearsed a script, complete with inside jokes, cheeky comebacks, and those profound moments of connection. I never stood a chance, I told myself. I doubted I was anything more than a passing witness. Maybe that’s all they wanted me to be—the spectator to their love who wouldn’t forget this digital romance like some tragic relic of the new century. And that night, it had been confirmed. Or so I thought.

When I woke up the next day, I grabbed my phone and typed: “I think you should come over, we’ll celebrate A’s birthday together.” 

A few hours later, the notification popped up from Selene: “Yes, how?” 

We plotted her travel from China to the coast of Canada with the same precision we used when writing code. It felt like we had one shot to make it work. I spoke to my boarding house parents about her stay, but they weren’t thrilled with the idea of a stranger sleeping in our dorms, so we had to find another place—and we did. We had 10 days, and we were determined to make them count.

She was set to arrive in Victoria that September, just as the leaves yellowed and blanketed the ground in a slippery, sludgy mix. This kind of season was unfamiliar to me, having grown up in an arid climate, but I already hated and warned her about it. 

“Sara, I’m from Seattle,” Selene said. “I’ve known the sludgy slippery mix you’re talking about. I won’t slip.” 

Once again, she was the one with all the answers. By this point, I still had never seen Selene. I'd concocted an image of her in my mind: tall, wrapped in a faded blue hoodie, her hair long and wild, the kind she didn’t bother cutting. She lived in her own world, just like I did. Or at least, that was the version I’d created—someone half-real, pieced together from imagination and the avatar. But when she stepped out of the cab, I realized how much of her I’d filled in, and how little I knew about what she thought of me. I wasn’t sure what would come next—maybe a quick nod, a polite smile? Something small to dissolve the image I’d held onto for far too long.

When she turned to me, her face lit up with disbelief. 

“Oh my gosh!” she exclaimed, pulling me into a tight embrace. She held me for so long, and as I watched the cab disappear behind the trees, I tried to process the intensity of emotions. When she finally pulled away and looked into my eyes, it felt like she was trying to see what was behind them. 

Selene looked eerily similar to what I had painted her to be, and I didn’t know which was stranger—the similarity or the fact that I had spent so long thinking about her and what she looked like. Her eyes were soft hazel, her skin pale and freckled, and her hair was just as I pictured: long, bluntly chopped at the edges to keep it even and nothing more. She looked like everyone already knew her. Her face and demeanor were agreeable to everyone—and yes, her hoodie was an aqua shade of blue. 

All I said was, “Hi.” 

There’s a kind of romance that comes with proximity, and then there are some that bloom with distance. But her presence confirmed our bond. We spent all our time together. She sat in on my AP literature and psychology classes—subjects she hadn’t had the chance to explore in high school. When I was in other classes, she waited for me in the library, where she quickly befriended Ms. Twiddy, our librarian.

She stood taller than me, waiting outside the classes she skipped, her lips curling into that smile—the one that made her squint slightly. On a rare sunny September day, I noticed her hair, tinted blue, revealed only when the light hit just right. I felt blessed to see her in her true form—as ethereal as her avatar. It was hard to believe she’d ever hidden this face, that she hated being in photos. 

I introduced her to everyone, and they adored her as much as I did. It struck me how different it was from A—whenever he came over, my house parents acted like he overstayed his welcome the second he walked in. Now, with Selene, people wanted to show her cat videos and buy her bubble tea from the campus cafe just to be around her. And I loved that. Ironically, I felt more accepted when she was with me, something I would have never felt if I were in my school in Muscat.

For some unknown reason, A never managed to come see us, so I figured surprising him at his school would be a good idea. I was so committed to my perception of their connection that I wanted to see it through, to bring them together. She wasn’t there to be my mate but his. 

We took a cab through the Victoria forests, though the car felt too small to contain our excitement. The founders of A’s school had intended it to be a “community at the edge of the world, uniting people and nations for peace and a sustainable future.” I suspected it was a cult—maybe because there’s no cell service up there and the WiFi was so spotty. We had to request for him at the lobby because I couldn’t text him. After he did, we waited together to see the surprise on A’s face.

But when A stepped into the lobby, his eyes didn’t light up with joy. Instead, they widened with confusion, and something darker—panic, maybe. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “Why didn’t you text me? I have to go back to class. I’ll call you later, OK?”

His words knocked the air out of me. I stood there, stunned and hurt, as the grand gesture I’d envisioned crumbled. I wanted to say something—anything—but I didn’t. The words stuck. Selene walked away before I did. And I followed her out. 

He never called. 

He later told me that saying he wanted to see her was just something he felt he had to verbalize to be nice, not something he actually wanted. He claimed it was necessary to keep relationships going, a small lie we all have to tell sometimes. I didn’t agree. Frankly, I was dejected. More than that, I felt like I’d missed something, as if there was a piece I didn’t understand. And I hated feeling confused. 

I could see Selene was deflated too, fed up even, like she didn’t care anymore and was ready for her trip to end. And she cried. A lot. On our trip back to my campus, she spent the whole time staring at the passing trees from her window. 

“I don’t even know why you brought us here,” she said 

“I… I wanted to surprise him. I thought you were excited,” I replied 

“Surprise him?!” she asked. “I thought you already told him we were coming? This was an awful idea.”

“The fuck do you mean?! You were there; you’d know if I’d told him. Besides, you could have just called him yourself; I was doing this so you guys could meet,” I said, lashing out.

“Dude, he’s your fucking boyfriend! Why would I want to go surprise him, that would be weird. Plus, he didn’t want to come see me the thousand times I texted him,” she confessed.

“I’m confused,” I said.

“I can’t believe you right now. Seriously? This whole trip feels like chasing ghosts,” she said.

Silence again. She sat as far as possible. The cab, once too small to contain us, felt vast. She was far away. I wanted to be close to her again. 

I wish I could rewrite a few moments, the ones where my story could have changed. The unspoken rule for a repressed queer person at 17 is to always mask, to keep escaping instead of staying. I didn’t create this rule; it was made for me, and I followed it because the introvert in me didn’t want to ruffle any feathers. Living on the margins feels safer than being exposed, safer than being seen for who I truly am—someone different. And normally, I’m alright with that; I’ve grown into it. But not in this situation. Because, at that moment, I wanted to be seen. But I let her hop out of the cab at her hotel, and said nothing.

The next day, I took Selene to the music building, which had a beautiful sunroof, in an attempt to rectify my errors. Despite the mess of the day before, she still came to see me. We had one more day together. I put on a French movie called Tomboy. The 2011 drama follows a gender non-conforming 10-year-old as they try to find their place in a new town. I yearned to communicate something I couldn’t dare speak.

She sat next to me on the leather couch. Even sitting, she towered over me. She was tall, lanky, and her sadness only made her more beautiful. I proposed a game—guessing subtitles—a distraction that only deepened the tension between us. In hindsight, I see it was charming, but at the time, I loathed that about myself.

“OK, give me an example,” she said.

“Mikaël’s saying, ‘I want the boys to like me,’” I guessed.

She laughed. “No way. Lisa’s saying, ‘Why do you slump like that? You have fabulous hair and amazing eyes.’”

I grinned, playing along. “Totally. And Mikaël’s like, ‘Yeah, I cut it myself.’”

I had cut my own hair, too: a pixie, rebelling against my family’s long-hair rule.

Halfway through the movie, Selene pulled me closer, wrapping her arms around me. Her confidence stunned me. I was so giddy, I froze. My heart raced, her blue-tinted hair resting on my shoulder.

“What do you think they’re saying now?” she said, she was so close I could hear her breathing.

My mind screamed: Stop guessing; stop pretending. Just kiss her!

On screen, Mikaël fidgeted, too nervous to join the soccer game. I said, “Probably something like, ‘I’m good at soccer, but better at hiding things. They don’t want me there.’”

I couldn’t let go of the fear. What if I kissed her, and she didn’t feel the same? Worse, what if she rejected me?

As we guessed more subtitles, I felt the tension. She pulled me closer, her hair brushing my shoulder. “You’re terrible at this,” she teased. But I couldn’t laugh.

I wanted to evaporate, somehow delete myself, resisting the urge to melt into her. I somehow held on until the credits rolled, and we fell asleep till dark. 

Later, when we woke up, she stretched, yawning. “Thanks for this,” she said, grabbing her things. “I needed the laugh.” 

“Yeah, me too,” was all I said. And I watched her leave. 

I got a text the next day. “Boarding now, I love you. see you soon–or maybe not.” 

I was too afraid to take that leap. I’d already made a big one by leaving my birth country, abandoning my family and pursuing my dreams. Then I’d taken another risk by bringing Selene here. I was so focused on that disappointment that I missed the underlying truth: The 10 days we spent together were one of the most pivotal decisions of my young life. 

I felt that I’d made too many mistakes in a row to allow myself to make another one. I couldn’t allow myself a kiss or a moment of truthfulness because that would have been selfish. I was responsible for her pain. I was the one who eavesdropped on a conversation that wasn't for me. I was the one who made choices that weren't mine to make. Most importantly, what if she wasn’t into the kiss and rejected me? Years have passed, but I still long to be 17 again to relive that moment and do it right.

After graduating, I moved to Washington Heights in New York City. I’d ended things with my boyfriend A shortly after Selene’s visit. Not because of the terrible way he reacted when I surprised him, but when I found out he’d been cheating on me with another girl. Turns out, the day Selene arrived with me, he was terrified of being caught. I had no idea. So, it wasn’t about me or her after all.

Being a young woman from a conservative Omani community was hard enough to reconcile. Most girls where I came from surrendered their heart matters to their parents to make things easier. I chose a freedom not a lot of people choose over there—especially not girls. With that freedom came my burden of finding and accepting who I am. Reconciling with my queerness was a different beast altogether, something that felt like an alien strangeness I might never have encountered if I’d stayed in Oman. 

Selene and I still talk. We play games together from time to time, but our conversations are growing sparse. Each call that passes without mentioning the 10 days we spent together in Victoria creates more distance between us. Neither of us wants to acknowledge our feelings. I don’t know if she ever felt anything at all, although over the years, I’ve learned she’s into women, not men.

As the excitement from that time begins to dull, I continue to cherish that night—and my incessant desire to kiss her. She was my first true indication of who I am. I’ve only been with one woman since, but she’s the reason I came to know that about myself. It would be a shame not to admit that.

So, recently, I finally picked up the phone and asked Selene to speak to me. She lives in Troy, in Upstate New York. She still doesn’t show her face on FaceTime, but I know what she looks like now. 

“I wanted to kiss you that night,” I said, my voice steady despite the years of hesitation. “You know, the one when we were guess—”

“Stop—I know which night,” she replied. And then, after a beat: “I wanted to kiss you too.”

Her camera flickered on, and for the first time in years, we saw each other clearly.

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Each week, The Queer Love Project publishes an original essay. Want to submit your essay and add to our growing archive? Find our submission guidelines and more here.