They Only Laugh Freely When We’re Not in the Room

 

I never understood it.

The obsession.

The way some women light up over stories of boys loving boys.

It always felt strange to me—foreign, distant, not my thing.

And then it hit me.

Because when a man loves another man, he becomes safe to you.

Still a man.

But not dangerous.

Not taking.

Not looming.

Not asking you to be smaller so he can feel taller.

He doesn’t want anything from you—

and he’s not trying to be you either.

He just is.

Fully expressed. Playful. Soft. Capable of affection without strings, attention without expectations.

The kind of man who’ll spill the tea, cry with you,

dance with you,

and slap another man and a woman for you—

all before brunch.

You see the kind of man you’ve been waiting for

in a love story that isn’t yours.

And that realization splits you open.

Because suddenly you’re not swooning—you’re grieving.

Not just the safety,

but the access.

The joke you were never let in on.

The ease you were never offered.

The man you might have loved

if only he didn’t need you to hurt first.

It’s infuriating.

To know men can be whole—

they just won’t do it for you.

They become beautiful

when you’re not in the way.

And so you watch.

And ache.

And laugh alongside them

because it’s the closest you’ve come

to being loved by a man

who sees you

and doesn’t flinch.

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