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Wonderland @wonderlandmag
We’re coming to the cottage… for one more round. For Wonderland’s Summer 2027 issue, Hudson Williams sits down once again with on-screen ex-girlfriend and best friend, Sophie Nélisse to talk about Heated Rivalry season two, slipping back into Shane Hollander after his post-season one major roles, and what the actor is looking for in love.
Hudson watches the world slide by past the car window, head rested lightly against the glass, eyes distant and glazed over. His script rests in one hand, bent in the corners and littered with marks from his red pen and yellow Sharpie. They’re only in Vancouver for a few days before heading up to Ottawa to start filming the first scenes, just doing some table reads and meetings and a couple photo shoots for now to ease back into the Heated Rivalry set life. His knee bounces, and his thumb picks at the edge of the paper until it rips.
The large building comes into view all too quickly, and the vice around Hudson’s heart winds just a tad bit tighter. He exhales, just as the car slows to a stop. He counts to five in his head and then pushes the door open, cold wind whipping through his long hair and his cheeks immediately. Briefly, he mourns the fact that he’ll have to cut it again soon, after he spent all this time growing it out and styling it to something good. He knows Shane is supposed to have long hair during The Long Game, but Jacob had put his creative foot down.
He grabs his bag and steps out of the car, but he barely has time to straighten up and close the door before something solid and warm collides with his body. A firm arm loops around his middle. Hudson inhales and is met with a scent he’d know in his sleep—clean, something almost close to vanilla but not quite, and unmistakably Connor. Curls brush against his face, tickling the underside of his chin, and for one suspended moment Hudson forgets where he is.
The bag slips from his fingers and hits the pavement. Hudson inhales again, and the air goes all the way to his lungs this time. Instinct takes over reason as he wraps his arms back around Connor, so tight in his hold it’s almost bruising. He buries his face against the crook of Connor’s neck, muttering there: “Hi.”
“Hi. I’ve missed you.”
Where have you been? Why didn’t you visit over the holidays, or during any of your free time? Are you two still together? When was the last time we texted? Called? I love you. Does that make sense? It’s been two years, and I still love you. But Hudson swallows it all down. “I know. I missed you too.”
SN: Oh my god, do you remember when we did this the first time around? I can’t believe they gave you another cover.
HW: I can’t believe they’re letting you interview me again. Is there no other cast member who wants to talk to me?
SN: Probably not. But to answer why they’re giving this clown another cover, and for everyone who’ll be reading this and wasn’t in the know, his Wonderland Spring 2026 Issue sold out in 15 minutes. Fifteen! Genuinely an amazing feat. And the restock sold out in even less time.
HW: Careful with your compliments because these people might start to think that you like me.
SN: Shut up. Gosh, I don’t even know what we’re gonna be talking about, really.
HW: Let’s do our usual format. You ask questions, I run my mouth, and the internet will go crazy for weeks.
SN: Please, the internet will go crazy for you regardless. You could say “hello” and someone will write a thesis about it on Twitter.
HW: It’s because of my tone, I think.
SN: Yeah, it’s a very loaded hello.
The air around the set is charged with anticipation, which it usually is when the scene being shot is between Shane and Ilya. Chala is standing somewhere to the side, script in hand. Hudson feels charged too, truthfully speaking, but Shane Hollander is a muscle memory, at this point. He stands on his mark with Connor across from him, so close that Hudson could stare directly into his eyes and count the stray flecks of color there. Some odd shade of gold prominent only in a certain light. In this certain light. He’s Ilya Rozanov now, just like Hudson is Shane, but the small smile at the corner of his lip tells Hudson, in no uncertain terms, that it’s still Connor standing there. He doesn’t really know what to do with that.
Connor steps closer at the cue, and Hudson doesn’t have to think about anything else, really. Where to put his hands, how to angle his head. Slipping in is easy. Their mouths meet in the middle, and it’s sweet at first, so reverent. Connor’s lips are smooth against his, his tongue gliding across the seam of Hudson’s mouth. It all deepens at Hudson’s inhale, urgent all of a sudden as Connor pulls him close by the neck and the waist, fingers wrapped around the curve of his jaw.
It’s embarrassing, but Hudson forgets where they are. The marks on the floor and the crew around them, the lines he’s supposed to say after. There’s only the world narrowed to the point where they meet, skin to skin. Shane and Ilya and Hudson and Connor blurring the lines. Lips fitting where they’re supposed—
“Cut!”
Hudson feels like he’s been sliced clean. Connor pulls away immediately. The space between them opens too fast. Hudson’s hands fall back to his sides as if he’s been burned, and a sick feeling starts to settle low in his stomach. He lifts his head, emotionally flailing, all of a sudden, but Connor is already smiling at Jacob from behind the camera, already walking away to head towards the monitor to check the take. Hudson stays where he is, eyes fixed on nothing. He presses his tongue to the back of his teeth and resists the humiliating urge to cry.
It’s just the role, he tells himself. It’s just Shane. Remember the tuna melt scene. It’s just Shane. Whatever that kiss was, whatever it felt like, it belongs to the show now. Just one take, one scene among thousands. He’s done this all before. He can do it again. It’s a good thing old habits die hard.
SN: Okay—since the last time we sat down for Wonderland, a lot has happened. More importantly, season two of Heated Rivalry started filming, you’ve been everywhere, you disappeared for like, a month—
HW: I didn’t disappear, I logged out of social media.
SN: Which is basically a wellness retreat for you! How’s your brain?
HW: I’m so glad you didn’t ask “How’s your head?”
SN: Ugh, gross. You’re still the same as ever. Why’d I expect something different?
HW: That’s on you, honestly.
SN: Yeah, fair. Okay, let’s talk Heated Rivalry. Without spoilers, what can fans expect from Shane and Ilya this time around?
HW: Oh, okay, we’re getting there right away. Uh, well, if you’ve read ‘The Long Game’ you basically have an idea of where Shane and Ilya would be throughout the season. Things get a bit more complicated, which, you’d think, after the first season and them just kind of admitting to each other that there’s more to the feeling than just hooking up and stuff, you’d think it would be easier, I guess, but it isn’t. The stakes are much higher now, because Shane and Ilya are not just dealing with each other anymore, they’re dealing with the consequences of their choices. This decision that they made at the end of the first season, being with each other, telling Shane’s parents. Shane’s whole plan for them to stay together. Season two is… a lot of it is that. Dealing with all of that.
Connie Baby
Hey.
What are you doing tonight?
Hudson stares at the message longer than necessary.
Just stuff.
He deletes it.
Probably sleeping early. Idk.
That feels like a lie, somehow. He deletes that too. He’s just about to type another response when the phone buzzes again, words followed by a string of crying emojis that take up half of his screen. Hudson scrolls up to see the follow-up text.
Do you want to hang out?
Like just us.
Hudson brings his hand up to press it against his chest, over his heart. Stupid, he thinks. Feeling some type of way over two little words that don’t mean any fucking thing.
Idk Connie I don’t really feel like it tonight.
He doesn’t send it. It sounds weird, coming from him. Mister “It’s three fucking AM what do you mean you’re going to another party?” It sounds way too cold, too. Defensive over something Connor hasn’t even done yet. Fuck. Another buzz spares him from thinking too much about the reply.
For me, please?
IDK it just feels like we don’t hang out anymore and I miss u.
Oh, fuck. This is worse. Hudson closes his eyes. Miss you. Connor tosses it out so easily, like it doesn’t rearrange the valves inside Hudson’s heart every single time. Like it doesn’t make Hudson want things he’s spent two years trying very hard not to want.
I just think it might be weird.
Deletes that.
I’m kinda busy.
Delete.
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Delete. It’s frustrating. None of them sound normal. None of them sound like him. They all sound half-baked, not thought out or, maybe, too thought out. All leading to a door Hudson doesn’t want to open. The typing bubble appears on Connor’s end, then disappears. Then appears again. Hudson exhales, thumbs hovering over the letters. He forces himself to type, choosing the safest option he has in his arsenal.
I’m really tired, sorry. Next time.
He sends it before he can change his mind. The read receipt comes almost immediately. Then, nothing. Hudson sets the phone face-down on the bed and presses his palm flat against it, like he can keep the longing contained if he applies just enough pressure.
SN: Wait, wait. Okay, let me ask this first, because I’m gonna get distracted later by the Shane questions. I wanted to ask this last time but got sidetracked. Bvlgari, wow. How’s that been like?
HW: Oh, absolutely amazing. It’s been one of those surreal things where you walk into a room and realize, woah, I’m actually here. I’ve met so many people through it that I never expected to meet—designers, photographers, other celebrity ambassadors. I got to shake hands with Anne Hathaway, which, oh my God, how do you go from waitering to that, right?
SN: Yeah, no, I get it.
HW: Everyone’s just so… incredibly talented and passionate. It feels so good being surrounded by people like that. It makes me want to try harder, you know?
SN: So are you gonna leave acting for modeling soon, then?
HW: God no. No, my walk is still bad.
SN: See, I wasn’t gonna bring it up…
HW: Fuck off. But yeah, I still trip over my own feet more often than I’d like to admit. But I’m really good at standing in a corner and looking pretty, which apparently counts for a lot. Besides, I think I’m more valuable as a model’s friend than as a model.
SN: Ah, yes, the models. Started from DSquared2 and now we’re here, huh? They love you.
HW: Of course they do, who wouldn’t love me?
SN: Fair. I hate to admit this but you really are charming.
HW: Please, don’t try too hard. But let’s not make this about me—I’m trying to keep it professional.
SN: This is your interview. Everything is about you.
The wrap party has that end-of-summer feeling to it, despite the very glaring fact that it’s November and everyone in the room is covered under no less than four layers of clothing. Still, it’s too bright and too loud and too much of everything. Every corner has someone yelling. Loud music pulses through the venue, and everyone is drunk or buzzed or well on their way, cheeks flushed and warmed by the alcohol running through their veins. Someone whoops in the crowd—probably Sophie—and ignites a response of the same call, followed by laughter and more yelling.
Hudson is standing near one of the cocktail tables with Christina, whose eyes are screaming ‘I’m too old for all of this but I’m gonna get called a boring loser by the young ones so I’m here’. His drink sweats condensation slowly into his palm. He’s been nursing it for a while now, mostly because it gives him something to do with his hands. Christina laughs at something, bringing Hudson’s attention back to the conversation.
“I swear to God,” she says, “if they don’t lose their minds over the finale, I’ll eat my shoe.”
“Which shoe?”
Christina points at her red-bottomed heel. “This one. Real fucking expensive. That’s how confident I am.”
“Hmm, bold,” Hudson replies, lips quirking up into a smile. “I don’t know though. They might not like it. Especially with a cliffhanger.”
“Oh please, everyone loves a good cliffhanger. That just means they’d be clamoring for a third season even more.” She nudges him with her elbow. “Besides, you were incredible this season.”
“We all were.”
Concentrated and loud applause starts up from across the room. The music dips a bit, and Jacob is suddenly climbing onto the small stage set-up near the DJ booth, drink raised, microphone in his hand. He taps it with the glass once, twice, grinning when the sharp feedback settles. “Hey! Hey—okay, hi everybody,” he starts, laughing as the attention of the whole room shifts toward him. “I promise, this won’t be long. I’m not gonna take you all away from the open bar, I know how fucking sacred that is for some of you.”
Loud cheers. Hudson raises his own glass in response.
“I just wanted to say… thank you,” Jacob continues, voice sincere beneath the slurring from the edges. “Season two, man. When we started this, I didn’t even really think we’d get past season one. This is a lot, I know, and so much has happened. But I couldn’t have done it without the best crew, the best cast, and honestly the best set I’ve ever worked with.”
Applause swells again, much louder this time. Hudson claps along. “Crew, production, writers—every single person who showed up and gave a damn. And those who clamored for the rise in budget… Thank you. We’ve shot at real locations now. You made this show what it is.”
More clapping, threaded through with laughter at the mention of the budget. Someone whistles. “And speaking of cast,” Jacob adds, scanning the room. “Where’s Hudson?”
He doesn’t hear it, at first. He’s too focused on the ring of wet forming on the table from his glass, the way it bleeds outward in uneven circles. Absently, he’s thinking about how badly he wants a cigarette.
“Hudson,” Christina says sharply, elbowing him. “They’re calling you.”
He looks up just as a chant breaks out. “Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!” Hudson shakes his head.
“Absolutely not,” he mutters, but hands are already on him, laughing and clapping him on the shoulders, slowly pushing him towards the stage. But he’s smiling, despite it, letting his feet help them carry him forward to the front. A microphone is shoved into his hand before he can even shake his head. The lights feel warmer up on the stage, harsher, like he’s under a gigantic spotlight. Hudson supposes he is, in a way. He clears his throat, squinting out at the sea of familiar and new faces alike.
“Wow,” he says, voice echoing slightly, a little too loud. Oh, he’s a bit drunker than he thought. “Okay, uh. This feels illegal. And not the pinkpantheress song kind of illegal.”
Laughter ripples through the room. “I just want it on record that if I say anything embarrassing, again, that’s on all of you. You did this. I’m going to tank our viewership.”
“No you won’t!” Someone yells from the crowd, cutting through the laughter. That makes him relax, helps him find his footing.
“Seriously though,” he says, tone shifting. “Jacob has summarized it, really, but thank you so much. The crew, you’re absolutely amazing. I don’t know what magic you guys pull every time, but I’m so grateful for it. Chala, our coordinator, you’re the best and always will be the best. If I can work with you forever I would.”
Hudson takes a sip of his drink. “To the cast,” he continues, “new ones and old ones. Thank you for making this show a place I actually want to be in. For making the long days of filming worth it. I am so, so sorry for every take I ruin.” He glances toward Jacob. “And Jacob… Thank you so much for trusting us again. For trusting me again. Giving us another season, another chance to tell this lovely story. I can’t wait to see where it goes next. Even though everyone knows what’s gonna happen next. Shane and Ilya’s wedding, fuck!”
The crowd keeps cheering, though Hudson doesn’t know if they’re really still registering the words. Hudson lifts his glass, scans his eyes across the crowd, then catches something—someone, that knocks the breath out of him.
Connor.
He’s standing beside François, arms nearly brushing with how close they are, head tilted slightly to the side as he listens to whatever it is that François is saying. He laughs, eyes bright and face open, glowing with happiness under the bright purple and pink lights, so beautiful and effortless in a way that makes Hudson feel like he’s twenty-four and stupid all over again. Jealousy flickers sharp and ugly, just once, before it dies in his gut. It's a quick burn that leaves something worse behind. Some hurt, one that he’s gotten really used to over the past two years of knowing Connor. He keeps his expression happy and normal through sheer force of will.
“And—uh,” Hudson says, voice hitching just enough that he has to swallow the spit in his mouth, hard against the feeling lodged in his throat. “Connor.”
Connor looks up then, mildly surprised, eyes meeting Hudson’s like he has no idea what Hudson could possibly say to and about him. Hudson forces himself to get through the words. “Thank you. For everything you bring to this show. To the scenes. To every room we’re in. My life. You make it better, all of it.”
It’s heartfelt. Probably too heartfelt. The kind of thing he’ll replay in some video from some random crew member’s Instagram post later and wince at. But the room is too drunk and too happy, too full of love to really notice anything. Besides, it’s not like they’re not used to it. ‘Hudson loves Connor too much,’ they always throw around like it’s a given. None of what he’s said would feel out of place for anyone in the room except, maybe, for him.
Hudson steps off the stage quickly, handing the mic to someone else before they can reel him into another moment. He weaves back into the throng of people, walking past all the congratulations and the ruffling of his hair, his heart beating too fast it might leap out of his chest. He drains the rest of his drink in one go and sets the empty glass down at a table.
God, he’d fucking kill for a smoke.
SN: Okay, so, getting into it now. What’s it like stepping back into the role of Shane?
HW: Feels like home, honestly. No, don’t laugh.
SN: I’m not laughing!
HW: It’s corny, I know, but it really does feel like sliding your arms through an old coat and finding that it still fits well. It’s still easy, but there’s a heavy sense to it too in that Shane really takes a center role this time around. Not that he didn’t have one in the prior season, but ever since admitting to himself that he’s gay, admitting that he loves Ilya, there’s been this shift in Shane. And there’s this—okay, caveat, this isn’t a spoiler—there’s this time skip at the start and Shane and Ilya are both older. And Shane knows what he wants, at that point. There’s this plan in his head, and there’s this dynamic that he has with Ilya where they’re both in this sense of “This is the plan. Let’s stick to the fucking plan.” Shane likes putting his life in little boxes he can arrange cleanly. But it’s a lot messier, somehow, despite all that. And it’s really a challenge to take the Shane I played from season one and play him a certain kind of way this time around. But it’s mostly been fun.
SN: So it’s gonna be a messy ride with Shane is what you’re saying.
HW: You’d know. You were on set.
SN: Okay, okay. Speaking of roles and dynamics, how’s it feel working with Connor again? And I have to ask because both of you have taken other roles in the meantime, you know, worked with other actors, major productions. How was it like to step on that little set we call home and slip back into being Shane and Ilya?
HW: It’s been great, really. I missed him a lot, obviously, and I think that—that helped, in a way, with the scenes between Shane and Ilya. Like it’s easier to get into this groove of “Oh, Shane is so in love with Ilya” because Connor and I have had some time to miss each other, and it’s intense getting back into it.
SN: Intense as in…
HW: No, I’m not falling for your bait.
SN: Boo.
HW: It’s honest work.
SN: You’re no fun.
HW: I’m growing.
SN: That’s so sad.
HW: But really, it’s been nice. Connor is always Connor, you know? It’s great. Real great.
Hudson thinks he’s going to kill the piece of shit architect who decided to design a balcony so narrow, tacked against the side of the building like some afterthought, like they desperately needed to have one but forgot along the way that they were supposed to put it. Ottawa is laid out in front of him, some blur of lights swallowed by the dark. He lifts his lighter up to his face and flicks the wheel.
It’s cold, but it’s not anything special or unusual. Hudson was built on Canadian winters; standing around outside smoking for a couple of minutes isn’t going to kill him, thank you very much, Mom. He leans his forearm against the railing, shoulders hunched against the wind, breath fogging faintly as he exhales smoke into the night. The cigarette burns slowly between his fingers.
He’s far enough into his head that the sound of the balcony door opening makes him jump. “Jesus,” he mutters, straightening.
The door creaks again, much louder this time around. A mop of curls peeks through the gap, followed by a beautiful face backlit by the hallway light behind him. Connor’s eyes flick around, then land on Hudson. Something stings in Hudson’s chest when they brighten, soft and unguarded.
“Finally,” Connor says, smiling. “There you are.”
Hudson exhales, less because of the smoke and more because… Because. He lifts his hand in a lazy wave. “Hey.”
Connor steps onto the balcony, as if taking Hudson’s mere presence as an invite to stay, pulling the door shut behind him. The balcony is a tight fit, almost, but neither of them really mind. At least, on Hudson's part, there’s no outward reaction to it. He doesn’t know what Connor feels about it; he doesn’t care to find out. It won’t matter, in the end. Connor tucks his hands into the sleeves of his coat and grins, a little sheepish, pleased.
God, Hudson thinks. You’re beautiful. It’s no dramatic realization, but it gets more painful every single time. Hudson’s chest tightens around the feeling, but he swallows it all down. He’s good at that, has been for a good few years now. The whole ‘let’s not talk about things’ game.
“Cold?” Hudson asks around the cigarette. Connor just shrugs.
“It’s always cold here.”
“Hmm.”
They stand there, almost shoulder to shoulder, not saying anything at all. Hudson takes another drag and holds the smoke in a bit longer, feeling it settle in his lungs. Connor flits his gaze, watching the cigarette between his fingers with a little longing in his eyes. He lifts his own hand, miming smoking. “Hey,” he says, eventually. “Can I bum one?”
Hudson shifts away, doesn’t look at him. “I’m smoking my last.”
“Okay. Can we share, then?”
“No.”
Connor laughs. “Wow… Harsh.”
“I just said it’s my last.”
“Yeah, but—” Connor gestures vaguely out on the streets below. “We’ll just buy more.”
Hudson finally turns, then. “No. I mean my last as in I’m quitting.”
Connor blinks. Once, twice, and then he snorts. “You’ve said that like, a billion times.”
“I know,” Hudson replies, jaw tight. He flicks the ash off the end, then lifts the cigarette back to his mouth.
“And every time,” Connor continues, smiling wide, teasing. How fucking dare he? “You last, what, two days?”
“Three,” Hudson replies automatically. Then, more firmly, “I’m serious this time. Cold turkey.”
Connor’s smile softens into something sweeter, more fond. It takes everything in Hudson not to stare at his lips, the way his mouth shapes around the sounds. “Uh-huh. I believe you.”
“Really.”
“Sure, Huddy.”
Huddy. There it is, that tone, that inflection. Connor says his name like it belongs in his mouth, like it’s always lived there. Hudson tilts his head, really meets Connor’s eyes for the first time that night, so wide and earnest. There’s this stupid pull in his chest again, the skip on the beat, and he hates himself. All these things that he has, and Connor will always just sit out of reach. How the fuck is Hudson supposed to move on with his life when Connor can look at him like that, say his name like that, and still never mean what Hudson needs him to mean? It’s fucking cruel. It’s a high he can’t seem to stop chasing.
“You sure you don’t want to share?” Connor tries again.
Hudson shakes his head. “I’m sure.” He looks back out into the sky before whatever it is on his face gives him away. He doesn’t say the other part—that the idea of sharing it with Connor makes his stomach twist, makes him feel sick in a good-slash-awful way. It’s too fucking intimate. More intimate than being spat on for a scene. Mouth to mouth without actually touching. A not-kiss outside of the cameras that he can pretend is one. He’s trying not to relapse before he can successfully quit.
It’s quiet again, for a while. Hudson finishes the cigarette slowly, dragging the act out longer than he should. Almost to the filter. Maybe it’s the night, or the fact that he’s flying out to New York tomorrow and they won’t see each other again, possibly, until they start to film the third season, but Hudson is already starting to feel the loss in his heart. He’s so painfully aware of Connor beside him, in every possible way: his breathing, his fingers fidgeting, the red on his cheeks.
Connor breaks the silence first. “You know, it feels like I haven’t seen you much lately.”
Hudson huffs. “We’ve seen each other every day for the past couple of months.”
“I know,” Connor rolls his eyes, frowning just a little. “I mean… it feels different.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
Connor doesn’t argue, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Hudson either. He just watches, searching for something, anything, like whatever it is that Hudson might have to offer now, in this moment, he’d take it. But Hudson knows he won’t. Whether that’s because he’s scared or because he just doesn’t want to, it doesn’t matter. Still, the way he’s looking at him now reminds Hudson—oddly enough—of that first day, that stupid chemistry read that changed his stupid life. His chest aches, but he says nothing. Some cold thing shrivels up in his heart one last time.
He’s tired of wanting. That’s ultimately it. Tired of standing close and pretending that close is enough. Tired of waiting, holding out, being the one to put his heart on the line with no sign from the other side. He’s made pining his personality trait over these years, but Hudson is running on empty. There’s nothing left to give now, no matter how long he scrounges on the floor for it. Besides, he’s done with begging. Connor can take that mantle up, for all that he cares, if he wants to. He’s done his time. Everyone knows he’s more than done his time.
“I think I’m going inside,” he says, finally, exhaling the last of the smoke. I’ll miss this, he thinks, but doesn’t say out loud. The smoking. The standing around and waiting for nothing to happen. It sustained him for a long time, but it’s all gone nowhere. Connor is beautiful and not his, and probably never will be. It’s best to get ahead of things before they spiral further. A good PR strategy, apt for his personal life. He throws the butt of the cigarette—the last one, really, he swears it this time—on the floor and crushes it with the toe of his boot. Old habits die hard but they die, in the end. One after another. “Bye, Connie.”
Hudson doesn’t stick around.
SN: Okay, one last thing. And I promise I won’t push—much.
HW: Oh God, I already don’t wanna hear this.
SN: Shut up! Okay, this is more for my curiosity, but how’s your love life?
HW: Really? Have I not texted you enough?
SN: Well I can’t exactly show our texts here! The people deserve to know!
HW: Ugh.
SN: So? For the people.
HW: For the people, I’m single.
SN: Shocking, truly.
HW: You already knew this!
SN: Oh my God, it’s just for effect. So how have you been coping with single life?
HW: Badly. I have new hobbies now, can you believe it? I might actually end up becoming an Olympic-level figure skater.
SN: Are you seeing anyone? Casually, secretly, maybe mysteriously?
HW: Nope. None of the above.
SN: A clean slate. I respect it. And are you actually open to dating or are you in your “working on myself” era?
HW: See, I had a dirty answer to that but I’ll restrain myself for your benefit—
SN: Aw, thank you.
HW: I’m… open, I would say. Interested, sure, but… I don’t know. I think I’m just not interested in anything that feels temporary anymore. Or vague. Or like, the relationship with me exists only as this coveted thing you get bored with once you have it. Like “Yay, it’s Hudson Williams! I’m on a date with Hudson Williams!” and then poof—nothing. It’s something I realized over the last breakup. I’ve done the halfway game to death. This whole thing where people tell you that you’ll just see where it goes but it never actually goes anywhere. And I don’t want something that only shows up in brief moments, or like, someone who’s in love with the idea of intimacy but panics the second the intimacy fights back. I think I’ve reached a point where if it doesn’t feel intentional—if I don’t feel like you’re choosing me, on purpose, then I don’t really want it.
SN: So what are you looking for, then? If you are looking at all.
HW: I think, if I’m looking for anything, it’s someone who wants to stay.