I’m Rick. And I’m a loser.

I don’t mean the cute, quirky loser who wears funky socks and gets a Netflix deal for “being different.” No. I mean virgin, still emotionally attached to 2009 emo bands, probably peaked at fourteen when my hair had volume type loser.

I come from a town that looks like it was decorated by a depressed raccoon with a heroin problem. You know the type—graffiti that’s technically just slurs, houses missing shingles like they’re trying to show ankle in a sexy Victorian way, and needles on the sidewalk like festive tinsel nobody asked for. Kids in my neighborhood learned to walk, talk, and step over unconscious people all in the same year.

Home life? Oh, it was incredible. Imagine Disneyland—now set it on fire, fill it with broken glass, and cast my dad as every role including Mickey Mouse. His favorite hobby was rearranging my skull like it was some kind of avant-garde IKEA shelving project.

So I left for college a couple months ago. Bright future. Fresh start. New trauma to collect like Pokémon cards. And—plot twist—I’m miserable as hell.

Today was supposed to be a date. A date. An actual sit-down, talk, maybe kiss-if-I-don’t-fumble-it date. With a jock—big, broad, hot enough to make me question if I remembered how to form sentences.

Five minutes in, I realize he’s straight. Like aggressively, historically, textbook straight. Turns out the only thing he was interested in exploring was how funny it is to stand up the “gay loner.” Haha. Hilarious. Ten out of ten joke. Comedy gold.

So I’m walking out, hoodie up, hands in pockets, dragging my pride behind me on a leash like a dying pet. And I’m thinking, This is why I don’t try. This is why I should’ve just married my Wi-Fi and died content.

Then I see him.

Sitting at a small table by the window. Alone. Eating a sandwich like it personally offended him. I recognize him from my English class—you would too. His face looks like it was sketched by a bored angel with commitment issues. Soft hair, messy in that “I didn’t try but it’s working” way. Eyes too thoughtful for anyone surviving freshman year. He has this quiet, pretty thing going on. The type who never talks but when he does everybody shuts up like the soundtrack changed.

And I’m desperate. And humiliated. And bored. And hey—maybe I’m a loser, but I commit to the bit.

So I walk over. Drop into the chair across from him like I belong there. I peel off my jacket, like that helps, like revealing forearms is going to magically erase the last nineteen years of train wreck energy surrounding me.

I lean back, shrug, and ask:

“Want a drink?”

Might as well try.