Coming-of-age is a Vantage column where Ateneans share their opinions on a specific beat. From in-depth analyses of TV series to miscellaneous musings in music (and everything in between), this monthly column is an avenue to spread and inspire thought-provoking ideas.
In this column, AB Communication senior Andrea tackles allyship in “Heartstopper” and how friendship is tantamount to romance in queer love for all ages.
A CRITERION I’ve always had for keeping friends is that if they know more about me than I do, then they’re for keeps. Admittedly, I’m not one to talk, having struggled to salvage my social life to this day, but I digress.
I’m a rather secretive person. I often see myself in the “they don’t know” meme—stoic and solitary with a solo cup in my hand, cooped up in a corner while everyone else is on the dance floor.
With the little friends I have, you’d think I’d be an open book to them by now. I want to say I know them by heart, down to the everyday quirks and nuances they exude, but that’d just be unfair. After all, they still don’t know a handful of things about me.
One of which is that I’m queer.
And what’s a queer woman without her arsenal of queer comfort media?
Now, these blessings from the gay gods, as I’d like to call them, are my friends. They’re the best constants I never had; the circle I’d always imagined parading through my memories and Instagram stories—birthday greetings, game nights, and lunch dates—beyond transactional bonds.
I owe a lot of who I am to these swoon-worthy queer romances. Coupled with them is a readiness to accept and fill the sky with my colors. Watching these characters’ relationships bloom so unapologetically convinced me—well enough to bask in my own daydreams to the musings of Taeyeon and Baby Queen—that if these overtly imperfect youngsters could find love in a world that’s yet to fully let them, then so could I.
But I was still one puzzle piece shy of loving myself, and it wasn’t until I finished all eight episodes of Heartstopper—the newest addition to my binder of binges—that I realized what it was.
The show isn’t rocket science. Nick has Charlie. Charlie has Nick. Nick and Charlie, together, have Tao, Elle, Isaac, Tara, and Darcy—their found family who loves them unwaveringly, flaws and all. They’re Nick and Charlie’s ride-or-dies in sickness and in health, in milkshakes and arcade parties, and they wouldn’t give each other up for the world.
Self-discovery for our undisputed couple wasn’t as scary with them around. Charlie’s cryptic, doodle-induced inhibitions began to fade the more he talked to Tao, Elle, and Darcy. Nick first confided in Tara that he and Charlie were a thing. At just 15 and 16, Charlie and Nick fostered a friendship that’s as pivotal to their lives as their budding romance.
Now, I can’t live with anything more painful than having no friends like them at 21. I don’t just want what they have; I’d storm the heavens for it.
I’m proud of how I’ve come to terms with myself. I may have the most beautiful partner on earth to love and admire the same way, but with no Heartstopper squad to share my newfound confidence with, this persistent (albeit silent) fight for understanding, respect, and true equity is bound to get lonely.
The uplifting discourse surrounding queer couples in the media is an immense sign of progress, but the friends they make along the way, who go above and beyond to foster inclusive spaces for them, are also important. We all deserve a Charlie or Nick in our lives, but we deserve to be welcomed with open arms into groups like theirs just as much.
I love the friends I have now, but the fact that they haven’t met my one benchmark for them yet—and I can’t make them do so, either—is an ugly truth that I pray isn’t set in stone. And until I’m sure they’ll accept me for who I am, no matter how different I may be from the Andrea they know, my pride flag shall fly just fine, or so I hope, without them.
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