If You Want It

Game night with a distant college friend for her birthday.

We each rode an hour to Chinatown—an hour for me, an hour for her. We thought a cat café would be fun, but $50 for 50 minutes for the both of us (she was paying for me) didn’t feel worth it. An all-day pass at an internet café sold us instead.

We played on the PS5 until nine and made a new friend—long dreads, tan-brown skin, soft freckles. His smile was easy, teeth bright, a small goatee framing it.

By the end of the night, he told us the games we were trying to download shouldn’t have been taking that long. One worker, thirty seconds—the Ethernet cable clicked in. Everything sped up.

We ended with Sackboy: A Big Adventure. I thought it was LittleBigPlanet, but it wasn’t.

It reminded me of an old friend—someone who felt like a sister to me. Introverted, but so expressive in her own peculiar way.

She used to make me play LittleBigPlanet with her all the time. My mom would babysit her, so we were either at my place or hers—back and forth, always together.

Yawning told us it was time to leave.

I was so tired I took the train up just to go back down, all to avoid the hill. Still, I bought myself a McFlurry and demolished it. So I’m happy.

Five pills. Warm pillows. Heavy blankets. My laptop rests on my lap as I think about the crush I told my friend about.

I keep thinking about him.

The way his nails sit pretty on his fingers. The happy trail I noticed one Thursday afternoon. The way my cheeks ache from smiling when he’s around.

I want him—but not if he doesn’t want it too.

I wonder what I’d be like if he really liked me. If he did, he’d show it… right?

He told me that himself—that when he likes someone, he really shows it.

So what does that make me, in his mind?

A friend? Someone passing through?

A friend that’s attractive.

He said he thinks I’m cute. That he finds me attractive. So it’s like we’re friends—with an asterisk.

He’s not the type to risk it. He values the friendship too much.

But maybe… just maybe, he would.

I still think it’s a no.

Or maybe I’m telling myself that to protect something in me.

I wonder if it’s just the idea of him. The possibility. The fantasy.

Maybe I’m not in crushing over him—maybe I’m in crushing over what could happen.

Maybe that’s why nothing moves forward.

Because I’m waiting to see what he’d do. How he’d respond. How he’d react.

What do I do when he’s one of the few people who can actually activate something in me?

Everywhere tells me to remove him from the equation. To find that feeling within myself.

But what if I just want him?

I know I deserve to be chosen. To be loved. To be picked.

And it takes time to water a plant, but I’m impatient.

I can’t wait to see her again. To spend time with her. To make her laugh.

I want to be close to her—the way she deserves. Not just friends, but close friends.

With closeness. Depth. Radical Black Love.