Sometimes I think my phone knows my heart before I do. Screens spark feelings before people do—maybe that’s because folks on screen don’t ask questions, they just show up, light and messy, right in my living room. I was sitting there, bowl of cereal in hand, when I caught this moment on a show that made me freeze mid-spoon: two Black queer women, sitting on a fire escape, laughing about nothing and everything, legs tangled like it’s just another Tuesday. They weren’t in love, not in the TV way, but in that way you love your people—soft, loud, without asking permission.
Something about the way the taller one leaned in, just a little, like she was letting herself be seen, made my chest ache in a good way. That kind of closeness always felt like a secret handshake, one I spent years learning but never got quite right. I watched them talk about their days, their dumb exes, how good the city smells after rain. The camera didn’t care about the world judging them. The world just wasn’t there.
And I realized, I’ve been that girl on the fire escape, minus the actual fire escape. Texting my best friend late at night, laughing too loud, swapping stories about bad dates and good hair days. There’s a softness in those moments that I don’t always let myself have in public, but on screen, it’s right there. It’s like someone opened a window and let the air in. I felt seen, and a little less alone—like my own Black queer joy was finally on the guest list.
So yeah, it was just a few minutes of TV, but it stuck with me. Sometimes a scene like that feels braver than I do. But it’s a reminder that maybe, just maybe, there’s room for all this softness in the real world too. Even if it starts with a screen.