The best man

Chapter 2

I never thought to ask him if he saw me as more than just a friend, scared that his reaction would mirror the one from before. The way he had gently shut me down, insisting that our friendship was too precious to risk. So, I never pushed. I waited. I waited for so long, hoping that one day he would come to me, that he would realize I was the one he wanted.

I let him show me love in ways that weren't spoken—his touch, his time, his attention. Was it even love? Or had I twisted his kindness into something more? I let myself believe, over the years, that maybe it was love, that every gesture meant something deeper. I held onto every lingering glance, every fleeting touch, waiting for him to say the words I longed to hear. To ask me to be his.

God, I loved him. I loved him so much it hurt. And I kept the peace. I held my tongue and swallowed my hopes because I cherished our friendship, our time together. I loved our moments, every shared laugh, every late-night conversation, every time he showed up at my door without needing a reason.

He'd come to my apartment, and we'd cook together, side by side in the kitchen. We'd dance, spinning in circles to some old record, laughing like we had all the time in the world. It was like a scene out of a movie—our movie. We did everything a couple would do, everything that made me believe this was real. That I was real to him. But then, why? Why wouldn't he make it official with me? Why was there always something unspoken, always that line that he refused to cross?

The painful realization that he still saw me as a friend resurfaced like a slap, stinging and raw. It was like I had been drowning in this fantasy, only to be jolted back to the surface, gasping for air.

I noticed how he treated me differently from all the others, from our friends. He touched me—not just physically, but deeper. He touched my heart, my soul. He kissed my mind, my deepest side, the parts of me that no one else ever saw. He knew me in a way no one else did. He took me out, bought me books that spoke to the very core of who I was, knowing exactly what I liked before I could even say it.

To me, these actions were everything. They made me feel unique, special. Wanted by him, in ways I thought only I could interpret. In my mind, I had already written the story of us, filled in the blanks where he had left them, convinced myself that we were more than just friends.

I didn't have time to confuse myself with all of this because I was too busy living the dream. Too wrapped up in those moments with him. Every laugh, every touch, every time he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, I let myself believe it meant more. Maybe I just didn't want to face the truth—that I was the one who had fallen, while he remained standing on the other side, comfortable in the space we had always occupied.