The Choice We Make

Alan makes a discovery about himself.

Alan had been in love with Frances for as long as he could remember. They met in preschool when she shared her crayons and he shared his dinosaur stickers, and something about that simple exchange carved a gentle space for her in his heart. Throughout elementary school, middle school, and those awkward early high school years, they orbited each other like satellites tethered to the same gravitational pull, never quite touching but never drifting too far apart.

Everyone for miles around could see the chemistry between them, and their friends often joked that they were “basically married already.” But they were just friends, even if Alan felt his stomach flip whenever Frances laughed or leaned her head on his shoulder during movie nights with the group.

It wasn’t until junior year’s last day that Alan decided to tell her how he felt. He had this elaborate plan: red roses, her favorite sea salt chocolates, and a handwritten note with the words that had lodged in his throat for years.

But life, in its typical chaotic style, intervened. Alan’s appendix decided that was the perfect day to betray him, and he ended up in the hospital, groggy, sore, and feeling like his chance had slipped through his fingers.

When he opened his eyes the next morning, Frances was there, asleep in the uncomfortable visitor’s chair, holding a bag of chocolates with a ribbon tied around it. She woke with a start, eyes wide, tears brimming.

“Don’t cry, I’m okay,” Alan whispered, his voice hoarse.

“I know,” she sniffled, “but you scared me.”

And with all the vulnerability a half-drugged, post-surgery seventeen-year-old could muster, Alan finally told her, “Frances, I love you. I’ve loved you for a long time.”

Through tears and laughter, she pressed her forehead against his and whispered, “I love you too, Alan. I think I always have.”

That was how it started.

Their relationship was real, messy, and sometimes complicated. They fought over college applications, who had to drive, what to watch on Friday nights. They kissed under fireworks on the Fourth of July and held each other on the days when the world felt too heavy. Frances’ laughter became Alan’s favorite sound, and her presence the calm in his storms.

But there was another part of Alan, a quiet undercurrent he tried to ignore.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love Frances. He did, with every fiber of his being. But sometimes, he found himself noticing when a guy was handsome, when a coworker’s smile made something in his chest tighten in a way that was uncomfortably familiar.

Ken was the first to really make him question things. Ken was funny, warm, with a crooked grin and soft brown eyes that crinkled when he laughed. They bonded at work over coffee and terrible break room snacks, talking about everything from video games to how frustrating the copier was. One day, Alan caught himself staring a little too long as Ken rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms dusted with fine hair, and felt that same stomach flip he had once felt around Frances.

It terrified him.

He spent weeks spiraling internally, battling guilt and fear that this meant he was betraying Frances, that he wasn’t who he thought he was, that something was wrong with him.

Finally, after a sleepless night, Alan took Frances for a walk around the lake they often visited, the air cool and sharp, the water reflecting the sunset in ripples of orange and pink.

“Frances,” he began, voice shaking, “I need to tell you something.”

She turned to him, concern in her eyes, squeezing his hand.

“I think I’m…I think I’m bisexual,” Alan said, the words trembling out of him like a confession he didn’t know how to carry. “I noticed I was…having feelings, or like, thoughts, about a guy at work. But it doesn’t change how much I love you, and I don’t want to be with anyone else. I’m committed to us. I just…I needed to tell you.”

For a moment, Frances was silent, and Alan’s heart pounded like a drum.

Then she burst out laughing.

Alan blinked. “Uh…I don’t think this is funny?”

She wiped tears of laughter from her eyes and cupped his face. “Babe, I know.”

“You know?”

She grinned, “Alan, I love you, but no guy is interested in Fashion Week just to ‘see what the women are wearing.’ And don’t even get me started on how you rant about how poorly fitted men’s suits are on award shows.”

He felt a flush rise to his cheeks, a laugh bubbling out of him as relief crashed through him like a wave. “You knew?”

“I knew,” she said, kissing his forehead. “And it doesn’t change anything. You’re still Alan. You still love me, and I love you. That’s all that matters.”

They sat together on the grass, the fading sun painting their world gold, and Alan rested his head on Frances’ shoulder, letting out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.

Being bisexual didn’t mean he loved Frances any less. It didn’t mean he wasn’t committed, that he would leave her for someone else, that their relationship was any less real. It simply meant that he could appreciate beauty, in all its forms, but he had chosen her.

He would keep choosing her, every day, in every way, because that was what love meant to him.

And Frances, with her laughter and warmth, her unwavering acceptance, was more than enough.

Even if he could recognize that Ken had a nice smile.

Word Count: 924
Prompt: Bisexual - This time we want a character who is attracted to both men and women. This can be romance or erotica, but with a monogamous type. Want to follow the memes in how whether in a "straight" or "gay" presenting relationship that person is still bisexual. Give us a little insight to their relationship.
Written for: "The Weekly Quickie Contest"