Letdown
The phone rings. She sees a number and a name she hadn't thought about in six months and the old feelings come rushing back in an instant. The infatuation, the crush, the understanding that it would never go anywhere. He was with someone else and more importantly, so was she.
"Hey. It's been awhile," hoping her voice conveyed just the right amount of casual surprise and enthusiasm. They talk, catch up on pleasantries. He's married now with a young child, as was always the plan. She knew it, he knew it, she never acknowledged her feelings because of it, even though it was clearly apparent to everyone else. They would always be laughing and talking, they made a beeline for each other anytime both were in the same room, they were inseparable when their significant others weren't around. It wasn't even about attraction, they just got along so naturally they didn't think to realize there might be more. Well, he didn't. She started to.
The thing about him, was that she just wanted to be entirely honest with him. And she was attracted to that, maybe even more so to that than to him. He put her at such ease that she always wanted to just tell him about everything, stories about her childhood, her family. And she was usually so close-mouthed around everyone else - she remembered the last day of high school, her friends whom she ate lunch with every day being surprised that she had an older brother who showed up for her graduation. She just shrugged, they had never asked.
One of the first few conversations she had, he made an innocuous comment about a technical word she used about art and she blurted out that her father was a painter. It was something she would have never offered up voluntarily and was baffled as to why she had told him. But realizing that it made her feel good.
Upon realizing this, the conversation suddenly was entirely dangerous. All it had to do was shift to their past friendship, and she knew she would instantly tell him. And just like a slow-motion disaster scene in a movie, she could only watch it unfold. "So, how come we stopped talking? You're not like yourself either right now. You seem... faker," he said, in his usual semi-serious tone.
"I guess, I decided to stop. I'm sorry. I didn't want to be inappropriate," she couldn't stop. She had no idea where the conversation was going, that was a flaw of hers. She could never predict the future because she could never make assumptions. She just went with the flow most of the time. "What do you mean inappropriate?" he inquired, curious.
"Not inappropriate. But just, less 'me' I guess. I mean, I don't know, I was being too much of myself around you," she struggled to explain without explaining.
"That's okay. You can be yourself around me," he was somewhat joking, trying to lighten the situation and extricate the awkwardness.
"No. It's fine. I mean, this is fine right now. This is me," she said unconvincingly because shockingly enough, she still was unable to lie to him. Or didn't want to.
"You can't lie to me. I can tell," he called her out right on it.
She can't even remember how she told him she liked him. She probably just went right out and said it. But she must have been so traumatized she blocked that entire conversation out. The next thing she knew, he was quieter and cracking less jokes, apparently realizing the sensitivity of the current situation.
"Well, you're a good person to know. And you and I have a lot in common, I've noticed that as well. You're just different from most people... and so am I," he started softly, setting it up in a way that he was neither leading her on nor discouraging her. That was the most frustrating thing about their friendship. He never crossed the line, but he was always right next to it.
"Don't give yourself too much credit. You were circumstantial. You were just around at the time and I just projected a lot of qualities on you. I was going through my own stuff and I just needed a ... a beacon and you were it. But it could've been anyone," she mumbled quickly, eager to end the conversation now.
He was quiet for a moment, embarrassed maybe or tentative. He wanted to tell her something but he was trying to think of how to say it. A reassurance. "Well, at least give me some credit. It had to be something specific about me. At least something about my personality. My good looks maybe? You aren't just drawn to anyone. Remember that. You are a very unique person, you know that, don't you? You're special. So it's not everyday that you find someo_"
"Please. Stop. Don't say it." The sharpness of her tone shocked them both into silence.
Please don't tell me how rare it is for me to meet people I can relate to and genuinely like but to also have lost them because they're with someone else. She didn't say this one, but she was thinking it.
"Hey. It's been awhile," hoping her voice conveyed just the right amount of casual surprise and enthusiasm. They talk, catch up on pleasantries. He's married now with a young child, as was always the plan. She knew it, he knew it, she never acknowledged her feelings because of it, even though it was clearly apparent to everyone else. They would always be laughing and talking, they made a beeline for each other anytime both were in the same room, they were inseparable when their significant others weren't around. It wasn't even about attraction, they just got along so naturally they didn't think to realize there might be more. Well, he didn't. She started to.
The thing about him, was that she just wanted to be entirely honest with him. And she was attracted to that, maybe even more so to that than to him. He put her at such ease that she always wanted to just tell him about everything, stories about her childhood, her family. And she was usually so close-mouthed around everyone else - she remembered the last day of high school, her friends whom she ate lunch with every day being surprised that she had an older brother who showed up for her graduation. She just shrugged, they had never asked.
One of the first few conversations she had, he made an innocuous comment about a technical word she used about art and she blurted out that her father was a painter. It was something she would have never offered up voluntarily and was baffled as to why she had told him. But realizing that it made her feel good.
Upon realizing this, the conversation suddenly was entirely dangerous. All it had to do was shift to their past friendship, and she knew she would instantly tell him. And just like a slow-motion disaster scene in a movie, she could only watch it unfold. "So, how come we stopped talking? You're not like yourself either right now. You seem... faker," he said, in his usual semi-serious tone.
"I guess, I decided to stop. I'm sorry. I didn't want to be inappropriate," she couldn't stop. She had no idea where the conversation was going, that was a flaw of hers. She could never predict the future because she could never make assumptions. She just went with the flow most of the time. "What do you mean inappropriate?" he inquired, curious.
"Not inappropriate. But just, less 'me' I guess. I mean, I don't know, I was being too much of myself around you," she struggled to explain without explaining.
"That's okay. You can be yourself around me," he was somewhat joking, trying to lighten the situation and extricate the awkwardness.
"No. It's fine. I mean, this is fine right now. This is me," she said unconvincingly because shockingly enough, she still was unable to lie to him. Or didn't want to.
"You can't lie to me. I can tell," he called her out right on it.
She can't even remember how she told him she liked him. She probably just went right out and said it. But she must have been so traumatized she blocked that entire conversation out. The next thing she knew, he was quieter and cracking less jokes, apparently realizing the sensitivity of the current situation.
"Well, you're a good person to know. And you and I have a lot in common, I've noticed that as well. You're just different from most people... and so am I," he started softly, setting it up in a way that he was neither leading her on nor discouraging her. That was the most frustrating thing about their friendship. He never crossed the line, but he was always right next to it.
"Don't give yourself too much credit. You were circumstantial. You were just around at the time and I just projected a lot of qualities on you. I was going through my own stuff and I just needed a ... a beacon and you were it. But it could've been anyone," she mumbled quickly, eager to end the conversation now.
He was quiet for a moment, embarrassed maybe or tentative. He wanted to tell her something but he was trying to think of how to say it. A reassurance. "Well, at least give me some credit. It had to be something specific about me. At least something about my personality. My good looks maybe? You aren't just drawn to anyone. Remember that. You are a very unique person, you know that, don't you? You're special. So it's not everyday that you find someo_"
"Please. Stop. Don't say it." The sharpness of her tone shocked them both into silence.
Please don't tell me how rare it is for me to meet people I can relate to and genuinely like but to also have lost them because they're with someone else. She didn't say this one, but she was thinking it.
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