Life recently came full circle. The man I had been pining over for a good two years felt a glimmer… of something. No, I don’t think it was love. It was probably familiarity. Maybe comfort.
It was a curious little episode.
I had longed for him for months, walked around with a knot in my stomach, put my friends through agonising hours of venting. I went through episodes of anxiety, heartbreak, sorrow, guilt, panic, shame.
The need for his acceptance consumed me. After several embarrassing and clumsy I-Like-Yous that were met with rejection, the longing turned into quiet acceptance. I submitted myself to fate.
And eventually, fate gave me more than I had bargained for. After a year of once-a-month “meet, drink, and hook up” episodes (that was accompanied by an obvious one-sided infatuation on my part), our equation took a surprising turn to a comfortable friendship. It was a relationship I cherished—rooted in comfortable silences, playful teasing, and the occasional encounters of sex. I told myself I shouldn’t be greedy for more. He was in my life. We met often. Hung out, smoked, and watched TV. He seemed to be making an earnest attempt at being a thoughtful friend. My perception of him as an emotionally unavailable fuck boy melted away. He showed up for me. Comforted me through heartbreaks and health scares—without anything in return, just company. He made his presence felt. And that should have been enough, no?
Sure, there were episodes where my feelings spilled out of the flimsy little box I call self-control. But he mostly met them with the gentle-but-firm nos. It happened enough times for me to remind myself that this is all it’s going to be—an intimate friendship and nothing more.
Then, weeks after a harsh argument and the beginning of a new year, I decided I should maybe shut that door of hope for good. And the first step to cut off my seemingly endless supply of yearning? Don’t give in to sex. It worked for a while. But who was I kidding? I gave in once more. But this time, it seems, something changed. He later told me that he wanted to simply hang around once the deed was done. It was a surprise. But for a moment, I felt happy. I wasn’t imagining any of it after all.
So, we decided to be adults and talk about where to go from here.
On that fateful day, my two years of unexplainable distress all made sense. It’s true what they say: you should trust anxiety—it’s your body bracing for disaster. Turns out mine was too.
I saw him for who he was. Now mind you, he’d always laid his cards on the table. I was too caught up in my head to take the rose-tinted glasses off.
The man was as flawed as I was. He was terrified of intimacy, deficient in hope. But he hid it well with charm and humour. I was forced to see what I had known all along. We’d be terrible for each other. Me hungry for love and affection, him awkward to even say he liked me. Me looking for validation at every opportunity, him caught up in the web of undeserved chaos thrust upon him.
After listing out every possible reason a relationship wouldn’t make sense, the great, big question was ready to be addressed.
“So, what should we do about this?” he asked. “Let’s not pursue it,” I replied with a rare decisiveness that even surprised me.
The conclusion was drawn. But it only seemed fair that we bid goodbye to the possibility of a relationship with “one last fuck”. It only seemed fitting.
After we “made love” and he was out the door, I felt a sudden rush of panic. Was this it? No! This wasn’t a proper goodbye. I needed more. A kiss? A cuddle? Anything. So, I called him back home for a last kiss goodbye. I was met with was a mumble-complaint about climbing two flights of stairs.
I bit my tongue in disappointment when I realised, that was the future I would live if we acted on our feelings. Bitter dissatisfaction and endless longing. I’d always be hungry for more, and I’d never get enough. This love will age like spoiled milk. If I’m stubborn enough to push through, I will be left without a dear friend.
No relationship has been harder to navigate than this one. We are friends, but it’s always going to be more. But like I’d told myself over and over again: I cannot be greedy. I needed to move on. Stop putting this equation on a pedestal. Humbly bow down, acknowledge what it is. A love, forever incomplete. He is now, and will forever be someone I will unconvincingly call “a friend”.
As I edit this three months later, I’d like to put it out there that I did enjoy a short-lived relationship with him anyway. We gave in. We had our moments. And it was beautiful—there was love, affection, joy, and belonging. Unfortunately, the same fears we’d discussed at length got the best of us. I wish I had more time with him. I wish I could kiss him again. And smile while I shared intimate parts of me I’d never shared with anyone before.
But we’ve decided that we must part ways to preserve our friendship. I don’t know what shape or form our equation will evolve to. I do know one thing though: We love each other. Not in the romantic way I’d hoped. But we’re trying our best to be in each other’s lives. It’s hard work. But what I wish for is that someday, I find us sitting as comfortably as we did in our living room a year ago: smoking, watching TV, and laughing off the bizarre things that life put us through.
