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By L.A. Neal
[Originally published in the February Issue, 18th of February 2026]
If you’re a queer person, or a fan of queer ships, we’ve all been in the position where we’re so sure that two characters will get together and form a queer relationship — whether it’s in a show, movie, game, or book — and every time it doesn’t happen, something dies a little inside of us, especially if you are queer. And, every time, social media is crowded with haters; “It’s just a ship,” “[Character] was never gay and never will be,” “Why do you want them to be gay so badly? That’s weird,” “You’re all delusional.”
It’s not “just a ship”. And we are not delusional for hoping for something good.
Here’s the situation: a T.V. show ends and the character everybody thought was a closeted bisexual with internalised homophobia — thanks to symbolism in camera angles, set-ups, colours, dialogue, parallels with canon couples — was, apparently, just straight. While that hasn’t stopped fans from continuing to believe they just never had the courage to come out, others are crying themselves to sleep. On top of this, another character (the main queer character) never got any real love interests.
For somebody out there, there is an intrinsic connection between their struggles with their queer identity and one of the characters in this duo that hundreds of fans shipped. Good representation is vital in so many ways. But when it ends up not being representation at all, it confirms somebody’s worst fear.
Somewhere, somebody’s internalised homophobia grew stronger. They became more convinced that they will never be accepted or that they are disgusting. They continue to live in silence, maybe forever, in quiet discontent. They try to pretend, to make themself something they are not. It will never work. They will live a lie for the rest of their life, a never-ending act that slowly eats away at them, and yet they cannot stop lest the worst truly comes to be.
Somewhere, somebody is convinced that they will never find the love of their life and that all that’s left to do is accept that fate. Because, sure, the only worthwhile story there is to give to queer people is one of “self-acceptance.” That’s what everything tells them, anyway. So, they give up on romantic love and spend the rest of their life without a lover. Deep down inside, it will always feel like there’s a piece missing, an empty space by their side.
On the other hand, somebody became filled with fear after witnessing the closeted character’s ending. Alone, having never truly accepted themself. They were reduced to tears, desperate for their ending to be anything but a façade, a forever lie, or isolation. They do not want to regret this life. So, with trembling hands and wet eyelashes, they find their loved ones. With a face-to-face conversation, a call, a note, or a text, they do the only thing they can think to do to avoid a life of regret: come out. Not because they were ready, or because they were confident or even certain that it would be safe to, but because of fear.
So, you see, it was never “just a ship”. It was somebody’s hope, somebody’s light in a dark tunnel. Now someone out there might never let themself come out of that tunnel. They will never learn to accept or be themselves, instead living a false life that will never quite feel right while others give up on love altogether.
But, sure.
Say it again.
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