Arcade Tomboy

You weren't like the others.

You didn't hover in a group. You didn't squeal when someone hit a high score.

You just showed up. Hands in your jacket pockets, jingling quarters like you were there on business.

We spoke sometimes. Quick lines, casual.

"You're pretty good at that one."

"You want to run the next round?"

Maybe a nod. Maybe a shrug that meant "sure—but don't think I'll go easy on you."

And you never went easy on me.

I don't remember your name.

I don't think I ever knew it.

But I remember how you stood: shoulders square, chin up, eyes never flinching from the screen.

You made me nervous in that electric, charged way that only comes when you're standing close to someone you want to talk to, but you aren't sure you're allowed to.

I thought about asking you out every time we played, but my hands were full of nerves and my mouth kept missing the cue.

And sometimes, you'd pause right before you said something, like maybe you were waiting for me to go first.

To press start.

To say what we were both circling.

But I didn't.

I just smiled, cracked a joke, and watched you walk off—head turned slightly, like you almost looked back.

I started going to the arcade more often.

Even when I didn't have the money to play, just to see if you'd show.

Sometimes you did.

Sometimes you didn't.

And then, one summer, you just stopped.

I kept coming. Kept looking. Kept hoping to catch a glimpse of your ball cap or hear your laugh from behind a pinball machine.

But the joystick got cold.

The games kept going, but you never came back.

I wonder what happened to you.

Where you are now.

What games you play, if you ever think about that quiet, charged space between us.

Because for a while, you were the most exciting thing in the room full of blinking lights.

Maybe we weren't meant to be more.

Maybe we were just two players sharing a screen before the time ran out.

But if I could go back, just once, I'd press the button.

I'd say it.

And maybe you'd smile.

And maybe we'd win.

But we didn't.

And that's okay, because for a while, you were my favorite game.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing, and to the ones who waited just a little too long.