I know it sounds pathetic, I know I should get over him and move on because Dominic is already solidly in another relationship, but I can’t help it. Like a scab I can’t help picking, I keep going over what I could have done differently to make him stay. I thought we had the perfect mix of dates, shared interests in movies, and hookup time. Like, one minute we’d go from talking about our future and how I’d be this big rom-com movie director making love stories for queer people everywhere and he’d be this powerful Hollywood publicist, and the next we’d be making out like nothing could ever pull us apart. It was the best combination of emotional and physical, of wanting to build each other up and tear each other’s clothes off. We didn’t have any cracks.

“He’s not an asshole,” I say. “He’s just off. He deserves a second chance.”

“Then quit moping around and let’s do it!”

I feel that spark of hope again. Maybe this is possible. Maybe I did jump into moping too fast before I really got to the bottom of the issue.

“I mean, I guess we could watch some rom-coms to find inspiration for the perfect way to win him back,” I say. Of course it wouldn’t take much swaying for my sappy heart to get sucked back into relying on my favorite movies.

“Rom-coms?”

“You know, romantic comedies,” I explain. “Two people destined to fall in love, but a series of funny events happens that keeps them apart until they finally end up together. To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before, #RealityHigh, The Kissing Booth. You haven’t seen any of these?”

Ross shakes their head. “No, but you can show me. Come on.”

They march through the door like they’re on a mission, leaving me to run after them.

“Hey, I appreciate you being so excited about this, but it’s going to have to wait. My mom always wants us to have family dinners together on Sunday night.” Ross’s face falls, so I rush to add, “But how about tomorrow?”

Ross lets out a huff. “Fine. I guess I’ll go home too.” They look left and right a few times until it finally hits me that they’re confused about directions.

“It’s a big city,” I say. “I’d have no idea where I was if it wasn’t for Google Maps. What’s your address?”

“84 Pearl Street.” They say it like they’ve practiced it, like a kid told to memorize their address in case they have to say it in an emergency.

“That’s actually just a few streets over from my place,” I say. “Here, I’ll show you.”