Love, Simon is a 2018 drama about a boy with a secret those once threatened to be exposed, has him coming to terms with his identity.
The amount of emotional weight that comes with the realisation that you are gay, lesbian, transsexual, bisexual, or anywhere else on the LGBTQI+ spectrum is almost inexpressible. For a moment you breathe a sigh of relief. You’re not weird, you’re just different. You’re not bad or broken, you’re just different. It’s the first time in your life that you feel like all the parts that make you who you are fit together properly.
But that relief doesn’t last long, and that breath you just let out gets sucked back in, because while that realisation brings you peace it also opens up a world of questions with scary answers. Do people already know? What if they did and they didn’t say anything because they don’t like it? What if your friends won’t want to be around you anymore? What if your family’s love, something that you thought was unconditional, actually isn’t … just because of who you are?
It’s that last question that hangs in the air during one of the scenes in the third act of Greg Berlanti’s 2018 drama Love, Simon. By this point in the film, Simon’s (Nick Robinson) internal turmoil and fear about his sexuality have become external: he’s been outed as gay to the whole school. A lot of students are taking it well. A few are not. Those few voices batter an already broken Simon. The people who would normally rely on for support are nowhere to be found. His friends are angry because he manipulated them in efforts to try and keep his secret. His family have been quiet since he came out to them. Simon feels alone in a time when he needs support more than ever.
The scene begins with Simon sneaking around the kitchen, an imposter in his own home. Emily (Jennifer Garner) is sitting in the living room. The two see each other, make eye contact for a moment, before looking away. A heavy silence rests in the air. I can’t say I know what is going through Emily’s head at that moment, but I do know what is going through Simon’s. He’s wondering if the reason she won’t look at him is because she’s sad or ashamed. He wants her to say something, anything, but doesn’t even know where to begin because he’s frightened of what she might say.
“Did you know?”, asks Simon. It’s a loaded question. Emily takes her time, searching for the right answer, landing on: “I knew you had a secret.” Simon, she explains, was a carefree as a child. But as he grew older, she watched him close up and keep things in. Emily wanted to ask but didn’t know how. “Maybe I made a mistake,” she wonders, to which Simon quickly replies, “No, you didn’t make a mistake.”
Simon sits down across from her. They are closer but the small gap between them still feels wide. Emily continues, still picking each word carefully, “I need you to hear this,” she says. “You are still you, Simon.” It means everything. Simon is still the same Simon that everyone knows. He loves them, and they love him.
Love, Simon’s title is reference to the way he ends his final letter in the film, open and proud and full of love, but in this scene, it also adopts a second meaning. It’s also a request: Love Simon. Love Simon because to be who he is and love who he loves comes with the knowledge and fear that others won’t because of it. Every LGBTQI+ person has been Simon in this scene, sitting across from someone they care about. Love Simon. Love that person. And this scene does. Emily affirms that her love for her son always has been and always will be unconditional. He doesn’t need to keep holding his breath. “You get to exhale now, Simon.”
He does. And so do we. It’s a great movie moment.