Call it what you want.

'Harry George!'

For the longest stretch, I've permitted the symphony of emotions to dance within me. An unyielding desire to make myself constantly available, even to souls that feasted upon the very essence of who I am. Souls that, in their insatiable appetite, never once replenished the cup of my being. It struck me as both bizarre and agonizing – how does one label another as a lover when their contribution is a relentless cascade of counterproductivity and heartaches? Instead of the tender embrace of tulips and the warmth of a comforting cup of coffee to brighten my darkest moods, I found myself immersed in a perplexing reality. Was I foolish, or perhaps intoxicated by love to such an extent that, despite every misstep they took, I clung to that singular justification to remain? The curse of being an overthinker lies in the knowledge that, with every query posed, the answers were already etched in my mind, meticulously calculated. Eventually, I made the conscious choice to turn a blind eye to the scarlet warnings fluttering in the winds of uncertainty.

How far should I rewind? well it all began when I was just eight years old. Every Sunday, during our family's church visits, I strategically positioned myself at the back, ensuring the perfect vantage point to observe the object of my affection. He was my own perfect piece of art, a creation I was determined to claim as mine, even if only for a fleeting week. As time passed, I found myself gradually abandoning church attendance, the stage for the wildest episodes in my life was that church.

He, a vision of perfection, possessed a petite frame, light skin adorned with heavy, dark eyebrows, and untamed silk-waved hair that only added to his allure. His nonchalant disregard for combing his hair only made him more irresistibly attractive in my eyes. The pink lips that framed his canine gemination held a whole charm. It was his smile, though, that could sweep me off my feet entirely, an oblivious thought that he, unfortunately, remained unaware of.

Coming from a modest, middle-class background, the intimidating challenge was convincing this boy that our souls were inherently intertwined. He belonged to a world of abundance — wealth, family of prestigious positions on the church board, striking looks, and an endless list of enviable attributes. For a while, I silently admired Harry, unable to voice my feelings, locked in a secret dance of unrequited love.

As the years slipped away, my family inexplicably turned a blind eye to the church, reasons known only to them. That meant no chance encounters with Harry , the son of one of the junior pastors. Deep down, I harbored the certainty that even if I decided to step into the church on a whim, I'd find him there, his presence looming over the pews. A different version of him now—masculine, grown, and sporting that girly grin that etched itself into my memory. Yet, beneath the surface allure, I reminded myself not to be captivated solely by his charm. Harry harbored an ugly side, a tinge of rudeness and an attitude that echoed shades of Hardin Scott—a charismatic flirt who left you ensnared while he remained oblivious.

Five years of absence from church had blurred the lines of memory, and at thirteen, I struggled to recall how he looked. Our family's neglect of the holy gathering meant 1,827 days wasted, an entire period lost to conversations with the divine. It wasn't that we hadn't tried other churches; none seemed to fit. In the void left by our spiritual abandonment, chaos ensued. Tables spun, a family of six devoured by the consequences of neglect, fingers pointing in blame. The once cohesive unit now fractured, our unity lost to the passage of time. In the midst of this turmoil, I couldn't help but ponder if it was just a facet of growing up.

Amidst the pain, I longed for a confidant, a close friend to share my burdens or just someone to gaze at, and Harry was the obvious choice. Yet, he was nowhere to be found, leaving me to dance in the daydream of familial discord, a surreal landscape of battles that consumed the best of me. Where was my Harry when I needed him most? I know we never spoke, okay ? but he was an intellectually pictured friend. The unanswered question left me alone in a sea of unending struggles, searching for solace in the absence of a friend, Harry George ...