Jake Ryan

He didn't have to show up. That's the whole thing.

He had the car. The hair. The social capital to coast through senior year on autopilot and call it a life. He could have taken the easy road — the obvious girl, the obvious future, the obvious version of himself that everyone had already decided he was.

Instead he stood across a church parking lot and waited.

Not performing. Not announcing. Just — present. Certain. Leaning against a red Porsche like a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it.

Jake Ryan is the poster on my wall not because he's perfect but because he chose yearning over convenience. Because he looked across a crowded party at the wrong girl — the invisible one, the forgotten one, the one whose own family didn't remember her birthday — and thought: her. Obviously her.

He didn't ask permission. He didn't need an audience. He just got out of the car.

I grew up wanting to be looked at the way Jake Ryan looked at Samantha Baker. Not with hunger — with recognition. The kind of gaze that says I see exactly who you are and I'm not confused about it and I'm not going anywhere.

The who, me? moment. The one where you realize someone has been paying attention all along.

That's not a small thing to want. That's not naive. That's just knowing the difference between being chosen and being settled for. Between someone who shows up because it's easy and someone who shows up because you are specifically, irreplaceably you.

He ruined me for men who don't get out of the car.

I consider that a gift.

Poster on the wall: Jake Ryan.

For every woman who's still upstairs getting ready just in case. For everyone who knows the difference between can you come outside and can I come in. For the ones who refused to stop believing someone would get out of the car.

He's here. He's waiting.

Who, me?

Yes. Obviously you.