I wrote a story for my best friend’s birthday. It’s a love story.

I bought him a present – the board game we used to play a lot in the time of our living together, but that was the janitor’s.

I wrote him a story with no intention of giving.

It would be like a death sentence to our friendship.

 

It started as innocent friendships do. We were forced to spend a lot of time together as the only craft tutors at the children camp we used to visit annually as teenagers. The kids mostly around the age 7-11 were never really much handy and the results of their misfortune were a constant source of amusement to us.

The humor was the glue that kept us going in those absurdly unpleasant times. A particularly sticky glue that made our bond that much special.

 

I wrote him a love story that he won’t ever read.

I know he would get the hidden meanings, the similarities, and subtle hints.

He is clever that way. He is very bright.

 

In a way, I am grateful I got it off my system. The SECRET that kept me in hysterics most of the time we shared a bottle of whiskey and watched disgustingly awful detective TV shows.

I’m grateful that I’m able to calm down when he grins at me among others at his birthday party.

But mostly. It feels like giving up.

And it’s weird because I don’t HAVE anything to give up. There never was any possibility for us.

It was TORTURE. But it was also a wonderful and exhilarating torture.

I’m going to miss that.

I’m going to miss the excitement.

And in a way, it feels like, even though he will never read what I’ve written for him, our friendship is already executed.

I don’t feel like smiling when he smiles. And I don’t feel like talking when he talks.

I hope it will pass and I will be able to enjoy his presence once more without the thoughts of numbness, of guilt over imagining him just a bit closer, just a bit more naked.

 

I wrote a story for my best friend. His name is Marc and I’m in love with him. His alter-ego in my story has the name abbreviated to the simple letter of M. I must admit I wasn’t aspiring for an unrecognizable subtext.

The story is a love story about a boy M. who suffers from an empty heart.

His love interest is supposed to be portraited as this uncool anti-hero, who fucks up everything that came too close to him. He is only able to love M. because he sees how smart and funny and talented and kind and amazing and warm and – oh so handsome he is.

 

On the day of Marc’s birthday, he insisted we were going to a club.

I don’t mind clubbing when I am drunk.

I am an abstinent now. And it seemed like another torture the universe threw at me after I gave up on torturing myself on the unrequited love I felt.

He is good with his words. He always knew what to say when I was sad or unhappy about some situation in my life. So, when he said: “I want to go to a club, have a proper birthday night!”

There wasn’t really anything left for me to say.

So here I am. In the mass of people, I don’t even want to know, with my eyes trained on the exit sign.

It’s green and welcoming. More welcoming than the greens of Marc’s eyes across the room.

I know I lost him the moment I wrote my stupid story.

But maybe it’s me who is lost.

I certainly feel so.

I fish for my phone in the pocket of my slim jeans. The ones Marc liked so much, but his ass didn’t fit in. – i'm sorry. i’m going home. see you tomorrow. have fun.–

 

I wrote him a story even though I am not the one who knows his words.

They got confusing, awkward and in the end totally wrong.

I hope he doesn’t notice. I hope he will pick up his phone in the morning’s hungover to check on the time and then see my text for the first time.

I hope he notices me leaving and grabs my hand in the parking lot to place a drunk kiss on my mouth and confess something he won’t remember the next day.

Being in love with your best friend makes you this ambivalent.

 

I wrote him a love story with no end.

It ends like this:

“He was so warm, that J. thought about volcanoes and the Sun.

He was this close to having him and yet he didn’t see the possibility of their happy ending.

He hoped there won’t be an ending to their story.

He hoped for his bravery, that was still in its fetus form.

He hoped for the three-word sentences, possibly coming after the two-word sentences of coming out.

He hoped there was nothing on his face so he was staring for the different reason.

He hoped the hand on his shoulder meant something more.

He hoped.

And he hoped.

And he constantly hoped.”

 

Marc, I love you. Marc, I’m gay and I love you.

I just thought I’ll put it out there if the characters were somehow reversed and you will be the one who ends up hoping.