There’s a certain kind of crying that sneaks up on you. Not the dramatic, movie-of-the-week tears, but the quiet ones that show up like, “Hey girl, just checking in. You alright?” That’s what happened to me last night, sitting on my couch, wrapped up in a blanket that’s seen more of my mess than most people. I wasn’t ready. I was just watching TV, minding my good business, and then this scene tiptoed right up and pressed the softest button inside me.
It was a moment on “Somebody Somewhere,” when Sam’s best friend Joel shows up at her house, holding a pie, absolutely glowing with that weird, nervous hope queer folks get when we’re about to ask for more love than we think we deserve. He just stood there, pie in hand, not saying a word, face all open. I felt my chest get tight. Joel looked like every friend I’ve ever had who wanted to be let in but didn’t know if they could. He looked like me, honestly.
I used to think tenderness was a luxury. Growing up Black and queer, you learn early that softness is something you gotta fight for, or sneak in when no one’s looking. Watching Joel, I realized how rare it is to see someone like us not just surviving, but asking for connection with both hands and no armor. The pie was just a pie, but also it was a question: “Can I be loved here?” I felt seen and a little exposed. I thought about all the times I’ve shown up—awkward, hopeful, hands full of something sweet, hoping someone would let me in.
So yeah, I cried. Not loud. Just a little leak. A “me too” kind of tear. The best kind, really. Because sometimes the screen gives you back a piece of yourself you forgot was allowed to exist. And for a second, you remember: softness is possible, even for people like us.