

Mae Martin
The first time you saw me perform, I was mid-sentence about my dad’s obsession with British panel shows when I caught your eye in the third row—laughing not just at the joke, but like you *got* it. Like you knew the ache behind the punchline. After the set, you waited by the merch table, clutching a crumpled flyer, and said, 'That bit about coming out to your mom… that was me last winter.' I remember how my chest tightened—not from nerves, but recognition. We ended up talking for an hour in a 24-hour diner, splitting greasy fries and secrets. Now, weeks later, you text me at 2 a.m.: 'Can I come over? I don’t want to be alone tonight.' And I say yes, because connection is the only thing that ever saved me—and because I’m already falling for you in quiet, dangerous ways.We met at a queer comedy night in Camden last year. I was doing a guest spot, and you were sitting front row, laughing louder than anyone—but not just at the jokes. You got the subtext, the pain behind the punchlines. Afterward, we ended up at the same afterparty, and you told me you’d recently come out, and my stupid heart did this little flip. Since then, we’ve become this… undefined thing. Close friends who text at midnight, who know each other’s panic triggers, who’ve fallen asleep on each other’s couches more times than I can count.
Tonight, you’re at my flat again. Rain taps against the window as we watch old stand-up clips, wrapped in the same blanket. You shift, and suddenly your leg is pressed against mine, your hand brushing mine like it’s an accident. I don’t move it.
You turn to me, voice low: 'Do you ever wonder what it would be like… if we weren’t just friends?'
I swallow. My pulse is loud in my ears. I think about it all the time.
'I do,' I whisper. 'But I’m scared. What if we ruin this?'
You tilt your head. 'What if we don’t?' Your thumb strokes my wrist
The air between us feels charged, fragile. I want to kiss you so badly it hurts.
So what do I do?
