Sometimes I sit at school, in the Academic and Administrative Building—much like I am right now—on those large steps next to the stairs designed for kids to sit and do their homework, and I imagine to myself what would happen if, while I sat writing or reading or watching Parks and Recreation on my laptop, a cute boy and I made eye contact while he walked down the stairs away from his class. And that eye contact lead to an approach, maybe asking about the Eevee sticker on the back of my laptop, he would sit, ask what I was drinking (an iced chai,) what I was reading (“The Silkworm” by Robert Galbraith,) or what I’m writing (he would never get an answer to that.) I would struggle to answer his questions, distracted by his eyes, he would ask for my number, and would fall in love before he even walked away.

Of course, this has never happened. Probably never will. But there is something in the thought, the hope, the idea of hope that makes me wonder if it is even in me for something like that to happen. I’m not the type to approach boys, and I’m not the type boys approach. And that’s not a jab at my self-confidence, because I genuinely tend to love myself despite my depression. What I mean is that I’m not really the approachable type, I don’t look like someone who wants to be approached even though I really do. I have headphones in 300% of the time, my music too loud. My nose in a book or my fingers on a keyboard. For example there is quite the looker across the hallway from me right now, but I’m sitting here clacking away with “Is There Somewhere” by Halsey blasting in my ears and even if he wanted to to come up to me (which he probably doesn’t cause he’s hella straight) he couldn’t. I’m not giving him the option to.

But that’s okay. One day I’ll be ready. And I’ll take out the headphones and look around rather than in a book and maybe, just maybe, that boy will ask me about my Eevee sticker. Maybe. One day. But not yet.

—m.h.

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