a summary

Perspective comes with detachment, the ability to let go with perspective.

I have to craft this so that I can pretend it is happening to someone else, so I can let go.

She had seen it coming for a long time. He had looked at her, on occasion, the shared glance of two people savoring an inside joke, and she would raise an eyebrow or look away calmly. Everything she said around him when his girlfriend was there, everything she did was an unspoken reminder that he shouldn’t… enjoy her company so much, that he was the boyfriend of a friend and not quite a friend of her own.

She was afraid because she knew that in another world things may have worked out differently, with roles shifted and reversed.

At the moment, of course, she had a painful silent deep crush on another friend, a crush she had mistaken for almost-love, it was that old and that unjustified.

It took the confession that the object of her affection was in fact gay to do what his brief fling with another friend and his self-absorbment could not do – break the damn crush.

Somehow she was deeply relieved.

And then he started talking to her online. She would cling to that fact stubbornly (later on) – he started the entire thing, not her. It was his choice and his fault for whatever happened next.

What happened next was that she realized she enjoyed talking to him, and that the feeling appeared to be mutual.

It’s your fault. It really is. Why do you have to be so goddamned nice to me? Why did you write that email that served no purpose but to make me feel better? Why did you start acting as though I was actually a friend of yours? Why did you pretend to care about me?

Why did you have to go and do something as stupid as that?


He asked her for books to read and she told him of them, and loved it when he loved them. They talked about books, and spelling, and movies, and gods, and whatever else needed to be said.

And it occurred to her one day, while his girlfriend was out of town and he was giving her a lift, that it was a pity she hadn’t met him before his girlfriend did, because they were perfect for each other.

It was an idle thought, a passing notion.

And he kept on talking to her.

And she realized that she had done what she was afraid of, and had fallen for him. She remembered then something that a friend had told her earlier that he had been asked if he ‘liked’ her, and he hadn’t said no.

She clung to that fact, and hoped and feared, ashamed of herself for doing so, that it might be true.

She began to savor his presence, his body as well as his mind, began to pay attention to the lines of his face and the shape of his eyes and his hands. The more she looked the more the form of him grew in her mind, and the more she tried to blot it out the clearer the form became.

It hurt.

She wrote letters to him, saying things she never could mention, that he never knew of or were even addressed to him. She asked him questions that she didn’t want to know the answers to, and he never knew. She wrote poems she could never use anywhere else, for they were his.

And to make it worse he still talked to her, still seemed to care about her somewhat, still asked her if she was all right, and everything hurt even more badly.

She didn’t mean for it to happen. Not that anything ever would. She wished often that his girlfriend would fall out of love with him, or that the relationship would end mutually on good terms…

She didn’t know him, really; there were secrets about how he acted around his girlfriend or when he had sex or even really gave into any emotion, and that scared her.

Nothing would ever happen that would be less painful.

She wondered if he knew.

She wondered if he cared.

And she ached and hated herself for it.

Listening to: Poe – Exploration B
via FoxyTunes

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