“Well?” Grant asks, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. “Can we start yet?”

I raise my brows at him. It really isn’t that cold. Global warming is as alive as ever, and it’s above fifty degrees outside. And anyway—your friend is the one who’s missing.”

Grant grumbles, something about Emmitt running late and also being an asshole, and I have to hide my smile behind my clipboard.

The other members of film club loiter near us, clumping into groups. Not far from us the RFK Bridge towers, a perfect backdrop for a lot of the Instagram pictures some of the seniors are taking. Astoria Park is beautiful in its simplicity, with a track field for people to run, and a swimming pool for the warmer months. Right now, it’s enough to stand around on a grassy field with the rest of film club and enjoy the fresh air.

As I look around, I can’t help but feel a deep sense of pride. Living in New York City, it was inevitable that our club would be diverse in nature, but knowing how white the film industry is, it always fills my heart with joy to see us pushing forward from all our different cultures and backgrounds.

Whether it’s because I’m Bangladeshi, or Grant is Nigerian, or Andie is Brazilian, we all bring a different perspective to film club.

This club is a carved-out safe space where we can just be ourselves. At first, I was drawn to film club because I’ve always loved watching and dissecting movies, but after freshman year, I realized I was even more excited about potentially creating them myself. To be able to write a script and see it play it out on the big screen, to know there are stories within stories hidden in every frame, to be the beating heart of something bigger than myself...it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do.

And to do this alongside the rest of the club makes it so much better. Having people who understand my vision and my storytelling desires is a gift in and of itself. We all see and understand one another in ways no one outside of the film world ever will.

We all share one dream, even if we’re going about it in different ways.

When another five minutes pass idly watching pigeons peck at the ground, I ask Grant, “How long is he going to be?”

Grant sighs, running a hand over his buzzed head. His hair is growing out slowly, and I figure it’s only a day or two before he shaves it again. It used to be grown out during freshman year, but he’s since taken to buzzing it all off—in what I think is an attempt to look like his father. “He’s not answering my texts anymore.”