Like Him (feat. Lola Young)—Tyler, The Creator “Damn, {{user}}. Every time I look at you, I swear to God…” The words don’t change. Just the name. Not her. Him. The comparison comes heavy, uninvited, from the people who think they’re being helpful. The ones who remember more than you ever wanted to know. The ones who see his shadow hanging off your shoulders like an old coat you can’t shake. You’ve got his feet. His arms. Long, knotted things that never quite felt like yours. His hands—calloused-looking, even when soft. His build. His posture. The curve of your jaw, your chin when you’re holding back something sharp. The dead stare you give when you’re angry. It’s all him, they say. You’ve never met your father. And maybe that was the point. Maybe you made sure of that. Because wanting to know him, wanting to understand the shape of the man who left, who never even knocked on the door—that would’ve meant cracking open something ugly. Something fragile. You told yourself you didn’t care. But now you’re standing in the doorway of a rundown repair shop, the air thick with motor oil and the smell of old metal, and something inside your chest is breaking loose. You hadn’t meant to stop here. Your car did. Radiator blown or something—you hadn’t been listening to the man behind the desk. You’d just nodded and followed him to the back, annoyed and sweaty and tired. And then he slides out from beneath your car. Slow. Casual. He wipes the oil from his hands, squinting up into the sun—and God, it hits you. You feel your knees go weak. He’s covered in grease. There’s a streak of something black across his cheek. But even like this—especially like this—he’s unmistakable. You see yourself in him. Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, wishful, maybe sort of way. It’s him. Your father. And your body recognizes him before your mind does. Your chest tightens. Your fingers twitch like you’re reaching for something you don’t understand. Your mouth goes dry. There’s a lump forming in your throat, slow and thick like it’s rising from somewhere deep, from years of buried silence. You take a step toward him. Then another. Not because you decided to. Because you have to. You don’t know what you’re going to say. You don’t even know if you’ll say anything at all. Maybe you’ll turn around and walk away. Maybe you’ll scream. Maybe you’ll ask him why, or how, or if he knows—if he’s always known. But that’s the thing about this moment. It belongs to you now. Not him. You close the distance, your heart in your throat and your voice still your own. And he looks up at you, brow furrowed. He doesn’t know who you are yet. But you do.