There’s this funny ache that happens when you see a little echo of yourself on screen. Not a full-on doppelganger, just a flicker. That “oh, you too?” feeling. I had one of those watching the new season of Heartstopper, and before you roll your eyes, let me say: I wasn’t expecting to get hit by a random side character’s nervous laughter. But there I was, snack in hand, suddenly feeling like the TV was peeking into my old diary.
It was that scene where Isaac, who’s mostly been background, is at the party and someone tries to flirt with him. He just sort of… freezes, then laughs in this awkward, quiet way, like he’s trying to shrink himself smaller than a library book. It wasn’t dramatic. Nobody made a big deal. But the way he looked—like he was trying to figure out if he was supposed to want what everyone else wanted—felt like the ghost of my own high school self.
I remember being seventeen, all nerves and oversized hoodies, at some friend’s basement party. A girl leaned in, all confidence and cherry lip gloss, and I laughed, too. Not because it was funny, but because I didn’t have the words to say, “I’m not sure this is for me.” I didn’t even know what “me” was yet. Isaac’s small, uncomfortable smile felt familiar. Not tragic, just tender. Like, “Hey, it’s okay to not know. It’s okay to just be here, even if you’re not sure why.”
Seeing that—just a quiet little moment, no rainbow flags waving, no speechifying—made me feel seen in a gentle, non-flashy way. Like the show was saying, “Queer isn’t always loud. Sometimes it’s just a soft question mark at a party.” That’s a kind of echo I didn’t know I needed. And honestly? I’m grateful for it.