You would think we had the plague. Men scatter at the sight of us, as if our independence were contagious. It’s not that we chose this life—more like it chose us. We’ve had our share of near-misses, close encounters with love that fizzled out before they could ignite. Now, it’s just us: Julia with her love of gardening and me, Lily, with my books.

Every Friday night, we pour ourselves a glass of wine and sit on the porch, watching the world go by. Our neighbors are polite but distant. They don’t quite understand our bond, how we’ve built a life together that’s rich in its own way. We laugh, we argue, we dream together. It’s a life full of quiet joys and shared secrets.

We often talk about what could have been. Sometimes with regret, mostly with acceptance. We’ve built careers, traveled, and found fulfillment in places other than romantic relationships. We’ve learned to be enough for ourselves and each other. It’s a strange kind of happiness, one not often celebrated but deeply felt.

On rare occasions, a spark of something more flickers in our lives. A chance meeting at the library, a friendly chat at the farmer’s market. But these are just brief interludes. We always return to our little sanctuary, our own world where we are safe, understood, and, most importantly, loved.

Our lives may not follow the traditional path, but they are ours. And in this world we’ve created, we are the queens of our own destiny.