I was always known as the gay roommate. It didn't necessarily bother me too much that people knew. I had no interest in the boys at school, not that I hadn't tried, but I didn't mind ruling them out completely. However, I didn't like that gay was my identifier. I like movies and old jazz instrumentals. I have an intense love for stripes and polka dots. I'm a younger sister, and I've been told before that you can tell when you meet me. But sure, I'll be your gay friend. Whatever. 

I remember nights I'd go out with my friends and I'd come home, sit on the couch or outside my building while my roommate, Sam, was giving herself to any guy who'd be willing to pay for her ride home. While we were out, I was an accessory, and once we got back, I was someone who took up space in our shared bedroom. I had almost lost all faith in the college dating scene early on last semester. Still, for all my talk about giving up, I always ended up saying yes. Maybe it was habit, or maybe I just didn't want to be alone while everyone else was chasing something. So when Sam begged me to come out that fateful night, I gave in, again. 

I couldn't believe she'd actually dragged me here. She'd grabbed my sweaty hand and pulled me towards a cluster of guys near the corner of the room. I made uneasy eye contact with one of them. 

"Hey," He nodded in my direction. What an inspired way to start a conversation. 

I let him ask me about my major, my classes, and how I know Sam. 

"We live together," I down my drink in one gulp, "sleep right next to each other every night, even."

My joke didn't land, I realised. Tough crowd.

He started asking me ridiculous questions about girls, like how many I get and what my strategies are. Seemed like research. 

"I fuck girls," I remember he'd said that to me. Like, same, that was the whole point of liking women, I thought. Well, not entirely, but yes, that was a big part of it. 

There was a whole emphasis on fuck. Like it was something he'd do to girls, and not with them, which I believed.  

He was inebriated; I could smell it. And his breath wasn't the only giveaway, but the swaying, the sweating, and the slightly wandering, lazy eye were contributing factors. He was standing really close to me, which was sobering me up. I was holding my cup close to my body and far away from his reach with one hand, and pulling my skirt down with the other. Okay, that was all I could say in answer. Okay. This was my exit queue, and I left my friends upstairs to explore the rest of the party. 

I decided to follow the smell of sweat and sexual desperation downstairs towards the action. I was halfway down the stairs, getting shoved left and right by people leaving the main floor, when I saw her. A girl amidst a sea of drunkards and miniskirts. 

You, I thought. I didn't know her name yet, but it would be the only thing I'd ever think of once I did. But in that moment, it was just you, her, this girl. She stood just a few feet away, her body caught in the rhythmic ebb and pulse of the music that pounded against the walls. Her hair consisted of soft, dark curls kissed with a hint of frizz. It framed her face and danced lazily along her collarbones, as though even the strands themselves were enchanted by her. It looked touchable in that inviting, dangerous kind of way, like the curl of smoke at the end of a freshly lit cigarette. The overhead lights threw lazy halos onto her skin, giving her the kind of glow people spend their lives trying to imitate. Her features were soft and gentle. But it was her eyes that undid me. Her eyes were sharp, hinting at a secret intensity that I was desperate to uncover. They locked onto mine for a fleeting second across the chaos of the room, and that brief moment pinned me in place. My chest tightened, my skin buzzed. I forgot how to blink.

And then she smiled. It wasn't coy or rehearsed, but it bloomed suddenly, almost involuntarily, like the sun cracking through darkened clouds. Her teeth flashed white, almost too bright against the obscure backdrop, and a single dimple creased into the right side of her mouth just beneath her full bottom lip. She started laughing, throwing her head back in an effortless motion. I wanted to move closer to hear that sound over the horrible music that was vibrating through the room. This is what the poets are writing about, I thought, this is what inspires art. This is the madness that creates symphonies and heartbreak ballads and oil paintings on the floor of stuffy studio apartments. I was mesmerized by her; my skin itched to touch her hand, stroke her cheek. I desperately wanted to run my fingers through her hair, make her laugh with my own terrible, dry jokes. 

I was stuck on the sticky steps, leaning against the loose banister, daydreaming about this girl whom I didn't even know. I didn't even notice how ridiculous I looked until a sweaty, meaty hand snaked around her waist, and she leaned back into the grasp of some guy. Some guy, it's always that. Some guy was always the catch. 

I had always been a hopeless romantic. I would never be chosen over your average frat boy with bad cologne and worse opinions, as disappointing and ridiculous as that might be. After every deflating encounter, I crawled further and further into the lonely gay cave I'd created for myself. Nobody to prod or laugh, no girls to mistake my adoration for something threatening, no boys to treat it like a performance.

Maybe it was sheer anger and frustration finally bubbling over, or it was the drink I had downed in record time, but I started moving towards her. I began pushing people aside, moving towards her figure like someone stranded in a desert crawling towards the only source of water. I was shoving sweaty polos and the padding of push-up bras. I needed to see for myself. The music bubbled and built up just as my courage started to overflow completely. I ignored the guy bumping clumsily against her and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned to me and looked me in the eye. Somehow, it was better up close. She was still radiating, the music rolling off her soft frame. The light bounced off her like it was in love. 

"Hey." 

It was all I could think of. Lame, I know, not exactly the stuff of sonnets. 

She cocked her head to the side, and almost smiled. Eyes flicking up and down like she was reading me.

"Hey, back."

My heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to faint, and fall to my knees at her feet. 

"Hi," I giggled, "I don't know if you smoke," She shook her head ever so slightly, her curls dancing around her face, "but I was just going outside. Do you want to... join me?"

I had done it. Put everything out there. I'd tossed everything on the table. All the nerves, all the want, all the ridiculous, swelling hope

She looked at me for a moment, her expression blank, not giving away any secret of what she might be thinking. She turned to look at the boy, still rubbing himself on her despite our conversation, then she turned back to me. 

"Yeah, actually. I'd like that."

I couldn't help the smile that crept onto my face, my ears moved back, and my whole body overheated. I reach out my hand to her, and to my surprise, she puts her soft palm in mine.

"Lead the way."