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There was a moment last fall that confirmed, beyond doubt, that I am chronically, quietly femcel-coded.
I was leaving a bookstore—no makeup, hair tied back, carrying a tote bag with far too many unpurchased books—when a man held the door for me. That’s it. He held the door. Looked me in the eye. Said “Have a good one” with the faintest hint of a smile.
And I—an otherwise rational adult—took that five-second interaction as a sign. A spark. The kind of spark that 2011 Tumblr poetry swore was real. I immediately assigned meaning to it, like a delusional screenwriter: he had kind eyes, we liked the same bookstore, we were clearly on the same wavelength, the universe had finally opened a tiny portal of romantic possibility. This was fate. Kismet. A paperback romance in the making.
That night, I casually tried to find him online. Used the bookstore’s tagged photos, a few speculative LinkedIn searches, and narrowed it down to someone who might be him. I didn’t message him—God no—but I did listen to three of his Spotify playlists and imagined what it would be like to read in silence together.
A week later, I saw him again. He was holding the same door open—this time for a woman who kissed him on the cheek as they walked in together. She looked like someone who uses retinol, owns matching mugs, and probably doesn’t project entire love stories onto people who say “excuse me” in public.
And that was it. That was the day I admitted the truth: I am not just single. I am the passive main character in my own imaginary romantic drama, held together by daydreams, internet crumbs, and a truly spectacular ability to misinterpret politeness as destiny.
Stay litty,
galaxygirl
I was leaving a bookstore—no makeup, hair tied back, carrying a tote bag with far too many unpurchased books—when a man held the door for me. That’s it. He held the door. Looked me in the eye. Said “Have a good one” with the faintest hint of a smile.
And I—an otherwise rational adult—took that five-second interaction as a sign. A spark. The kind of spark that 2011 Tumblr poetry swore was real. I immediately assigned meaning to it, like a delusional screenwriter: he had kind eyes, we liked the same bookstore, we were clearly on the same wavelength, the universe had finally opened a tiny portal of romantic possibility. This was fate. Kismet. A paperback romance in the making.
That night, I casually tried to find him online. Used the bookstore’s tagged photos, a few speculative LinkedIn searches, and narrowed it down to someone who might be him. I didn’t message him—God no—but I did listen to three of his Spotify playlists and imagined what it would be like to read in silence together.
A week later, I saw him again. He was holding the same door open—this time for a woman who kissed him on the cheek as they walked in together. She looked like someone who uses retinol, owns matching mugs, and probably doesn’t project entire love stories onto people who say “excuse me” in public.
And that was it. That was the day I admitted the truth: I am not just single. I am the passive main character in my own imaginary romantic drama, held together by daydreams, internet crumbs, and a truly spectacular ability to misinterpret politeness as destiny.
Stay litty,
galaxygirl
