Sometimes the screen catches me off guard. Like it’s holding a mirror up to my heart and saying, “Don’t worry, I see all that soft stuff you tuck away.” Last night, I was curled up with my favorite blanket (the one my grandma side-eyed because it’s covered in rainbows), watching that show everyone’s been buzzing about. And this one moment, y’all—it got me.
There’s this character, all awkward limbs and nervous energy, who blurts out “I like you” to her crush in the middle of a crowded hallway. It wasn’t some big, dramatic confession, just a shaky whisper that tumbled out because she couldn’t hold it anymore. I felt that in my bones. I remember being sixteen and thinking my own feelings were too much, too loud, too queer for the world to handle. I used to rehearse every word in my head, then chicken out and say nothing. Watching her, I laughed a little at how terrified she looked—and how much braver she was than I ever managed to be at that age.
There’s something about seeing a Black girl on screen, nervous and tender and not trying to be cool, that makes me feel like the room gets warmer. I caught myself grinning so hard my cheeks hurt. It wasn’t just the queerness or the awkwardness—it was the softness, the way she didn’t armor up or shrink down. I saw myself, but gentler. Softer than I ever let myself be, back then.
It’s wild how a screen can say the things I keep quiet. I’m still learning to let my feelings tumble out, even if my voice shakes. Maybe that’s what these moments are for: a little nudge, a tiny echo, reminding me I can show up as all of myself. Even if I’m just whispering it to my living room.