Tyler is my roommate. He’s also six feet of Black guy from Atlanta who wears his hair in twists, plays NBA 2K like it’s a second job, and has a laugh that you can hear from the floor below us.
Tyler is also, importantly, the most emotionally intelligent person I know. Which means he noticed before anyone else did.
He noticed the way I’d “accidentally” be in Marcus’s room every evening. He noticed the way Marcus — glasses, anime t-shirts, the kind of guy who apologizes to automatic doors — started standing up straighter. He noticed the way neither of us would look at each other in the kitchen when his friends came over.
He didn’t say anything for two weeks.
Then one night, Marcus was in the shower, and Tyler and I were the only ones in the room. Tyler was on his bed scrolling his phone. I was at my desk pretending to do homework.
“So,” Tyler said, without looking up.
“So,” I said, also without looking up.
“You and Marcus.”
I froze. Not dramatically. Just… a micro-freeze. The kind that says oh, here we go.
“What about us?” I asked.
Tyler put his phone down. Turned to face me. And I want to be clear — Tyler has what I can only describe as “resting big brother energy.” Even when he’s sitting on his bed in sweatpants eating Takis, he looks like he’s about to give you the talk.
“I see how you look at him,” Tyler said. “And I see how he looks at you. And I see how neither of you will look at each other when I’m in the room.”
I said nothing.
“And I need to know,” Tyler continued, “because I love Marcus like a brother, and if you’re playing with him —”
“I’m not playing with him.”
“—then what’s going on.”
I turned in my desk chair to face him. He was looking at me with those big, serious eyes. The kind of eyes that said I will end you if you hurt him.
“Tyler,” I said. “I’m not playing with him.”
“Then what is it.”
“It’s… complicated.”
“Try me.”
I thought about it. Thought about what it actually was — me and Marcus, whatever we were doing, whatever we had. It wasn’t dating. It wasn’t a relationship. It wasn’t nothing.
“We hook up,” I said.
Tyler blinked.
“Regularly,” I added.
Tyler blinked again.
“Consensually,” I said, because at this point I was just listing words.
“Consensually,” Tyler repeated.
“Yes.”
“And he’s… okay with that.”
“Tyler. He’s more than okay with that.”
Tyler leaned back on his bed. Crossed his arms. Processed. I could see the gears turning — the way he was rearranging every interaction he’d ever witnessed between me and Marcus into a new configuration that suddenly made a lot more sense.
“So when he was ‘studying’ for three hours last Tuesday—”
“We were not studying.”
“And when you were ‘helping him pick out clothes’ for an hour—”
“We were not picking out clothes.”
“And when he came out of your room that one time and his glasses were crooked—”
I smiled. “His glasses were crooked.”
Tyler covered his face with his hand. He was laughing. He was trying not to laugh. He was failing at trying not to laugh.
“HOW LONG.”
“Two months.”
“TWO MONTHS.” Tyler’s voice went up an octave. “I’VE BEEN LIVING WITH THIS FOR TWO MONTHS.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I DIDN’T KNOW TO ASK.”
“Well now you know.”
Tyler sat up. Looked at me. Really looked at me. And I could see something shifting in his expression — the big-brother protectiveness softening into something else. Something like… curiosity.
“So,” Tyler said slowly. “What do you see in him.”
I tilted my head. “What do you mean.”
“Marcus is… Marcus. He’s great. He’s my boy. But he’s not— I mean, you’re— you’re you. You could have anyone. Why him.”
It was a fair question. And the answer was simpler than Tyler expected.
“Because he’s the only one who looks at me like I’m exactly what he wants,” I said. “No pressure. No expectations. No ‘what are we’ conversations at 2 AM. Just… want. Pure want. He wants me. I want him. That’s it.”
Tyler processed this. Nodded slowly.
“And he’s okay with that? No feelings? No—?”
“Tyler. We talked about it. We’re both on the same page. It’s physical. It’s fun. It’s good. Neither of us wants more.”
“Neither of you,” Tyler repeated.
“Neither of us.”
A pause. Tyler looked at the door to the bathroom, where Marcus was still showering. Looked back at me.
“Huh,” Tyler said.
“Huh,” I agreed.
Another pause. Tyler picked up his phone. Opened NBA 2K. Resumed his game.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” He didn’t look up from his screen. “Just… be cool about it. Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m never weird.”
“You’re ALWAYS weird.”
“That’s not true.”
“You’re literally sitting in a soccer jersey and knee-high socks at midnight doing homework you’re not actually doing.”
“That’s called a uniform, Tyler.”
“That’s called a lifestyle.”
I laughed. Tyler laughed. The bathroom door opened and Marcus walked out, towel around his neck, glasses fogged from the steam, looking like the most lovable dork on the planet.
“Hey,” Marcus said.
“Hey,” Tyler and I said at the same time.
Marcus looked between us. “Why do you both look like that.”
“Like what,” I said.
“Like you’re sharing a secret.”
Tyler looked at me. I looked at Tyler.
“We are,” Tyler said. He looked back at Marcus. “Your glasses were crooked that one time.”
Marcus went pale.
“TYLER.”
“What. It’s relevant information now.”
Marcus looked at me. I gave him my best I’m sorry not sorry smile.
“I hate both of you,” Marcus said, and walked to his room.
“No you don’t,” Tyler called after him.
“I DO.”
“You literally don’t.”
Marcus’s door closed. Tyler looked at me. I looked at Tyler.
“He’s gonna be embarrassed for three days,” Tyler said.
“Probably four.”
“Want me to leave for a bit?”
I smiled. “That would be great.”
Tyler grabbed his controller. Stood up. Paused at the door.
“Hey,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“He’s a good dude, man. Treat him right.”
“I always do.”
Tyler nodded. Walked out. Closed the door behind him.
And approximately thirty seconds later, Marcus’s door opened just a crack.
“He’s gone?” Marcus whispered.
“He’s gone.”
The door opened wider. Marcus stepped out. His glasses were clean now. His hair was damp. He was wearing that oversized anime t-shirt that I loved, the one that hung off one shoulder just enough to—
“You told him,” Marcus said.
“I told him.”
“And he’s… okay?”
“He’s more than okay. He asked me what I see in you.”
Marcus’s eyes went wide. “What did you say.”
I stood up. Walked over to him. Put my hands on his chest, right over his heart, right where I could feel it beating a little faster than normal.
“I told him you’re the only one who looks at me like I’m exactly what you want,” I said.
Marcus swallowed. His hands came up to rest on my waist.
“And?” he asked.
“And I told him the truth.”
“Which is.”
I pulled him close. Felt his breath on my face.
“You’re it for me, Marcus. Not forever. Not in a ‘relationship’ way. But right now. Tonight. Every night this week. You’re it.”
His grip tightened.
“Tyler’s at the library,” Marcus said. His voice was lower now. Different.
“I know.”
“He won’t be back for three hours.”
“I know that too.”
“Then—”
“I know.”
I kissed him. He kissed back. His glasses were still slightly fogged and I could feel the frames pressing against my face and I didn’t care.
Later — much later — Marcus’s glasses were on the nightstand. His anime t-shirt was on the floor. And Tyler’s empty side of the room was, for the moment, the most blessedly quiet space on the planet.
When Tyler came back, he took one look at the closed door to Marcus’s room, shook his head, and went to his own bed.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
The next morning, there was a Post-it note on my desk. In Tyler’s handwriting, it said:
“glad you two figured it out. also: buy earplugs. - T”
I smiled. Marcus, who was making coffee in the kitchen, yelled: “Tyler says we need earplugs!”
Tyler, from his bed: “I ALREADY BOUGHT THEM.”
Marcus laughed. I laughed. Tyler groaned.
It was a good morning.
The next morning, the Post-it said: “glad you two figured it out. also: buy earplugs. - T”
Marcus found it. He smiled. He didn’t say anything.
But that night, Tyler didn’t go to the library.
He stayed in his bed. Headphones on. I could see the glow of his phone screen from where I lay in Marcus’s bed, the door cracked just enough to see.
He wasn’t playing NBA 2K.
He was typing.
To someone.
For twenty minutes straight.
Tyler doesn’t text for twenty minutes. Tyler texts in bursts. Tyler texts in chaos. Tyler sends “yo” followed by seventeen more messages explaining why he said yo. Tyler does not sit in the dark for twenty minutes composing a single careful paragraph to someone on his phone.
I watched the light from his screen flicker across the ceiling.
I didn’t ask who it was.
But I knew.
The next morning, Tyler looked at me over his coffee and said nothing. And I knew that too.
His phone was on the table. Screen up. And there, in his open messages, was a conversation I wasn’t supposed to see.
The contact name wasn’t a name.
It was an emoji. A single heart.
And the last message — sent at 3:47 AM, long after Tyler thought everyone was asleep — said:
“i think i like him. like really like him. and i don’t know what to do with that.”
I looked at Tyler.
Tyler looked at his coffee.
Tyler knew I’d seen it.
And for the first time since I’d known him, Tyler didn’t have anything to say.
Caption: “Tyler wanted answers. I didn’t use words.”