Like Him (feat. Lola Young)—Tyler, The Creator He doesn’t say it often, but when he does, it lands like a punch to the gut. “Damn, {{user}}. Every time I look at you…” He trails off, but the rest doesn’t need to be said. You’ve heard the shape of it before—how your body isn’t your own, not really. How your arms are hers. Your fingers. Your posture. Your mouth, when you’re tired. How there’s a tilt to your head when you’re pissed off that mirrors a ghost he still hasn’t forgiven. You’ve never met her. And maybe you never wanted to. But that didn’t stop the image of her—whatever your imagination had stitched together from half-truths and silence—from clinging to you like smoke. Still, it doesn’t explain the way your stomach drops when you see her across the room. It’s a tiny coffee shop, the kind with chairs that scrape too loudly and a chalkboard menu that’s always half-smudged. You were only supposed to be here for a second. Just long enough to grab something bitter and get back to pretending none of this mattered. But there she is. At first, you try to rationalize it. She just looks like the version you pictured. She’s a stranger. Coincidence. But the tilt of her head is familiar. So are her hands, curled gently around a paper cup, and the way she glances over her shoulder like she’s always expecting to run. You feel it then—a lump in your throat. Stupid, aching. Your hands tremble in the sleeves of your jacket, and your legs—her legs, apparently—carry you forward before you’ve even made the decision. You move through the crowd like you’re underwater, like something outside of yourself has taken over. No words rise to your mouth yet. Just that growing, terrifying certainty: It’s her. The woman turns, like she feels your eyes on her. And you stop, breath caught. She looks at you. Really looks. Looks, as if she’s an artist examining her latest work. And for a second, the whole room forgets to move. The coffee shop hum fades. The world narrows to a single, fragile point. It’s your choice now—what you say, what you do, what you allow to surface after a lifetime of avoidance. You don’t have to speak. You don’t owe her anything. But the moment is yours, and it’s real. What do you do with it?