I had known him for years. Up until that moment, we’d had a neat little platonic relationship. But the day had come when I’d finally decided to mess things up.
Same old story. We used to be just good friends. Well, it’s true that there was a physical attraction going on; that we accidentally rubbed our arms against each other a little too often; and that maybe we had too much fun and spent too much time together, but... Things had never progressed from that point. Mostly we used to talk for hours. I could read him like a book, and I felt that nobody could ever understand me better than he did. We connected on a deeper level than most people. Or so I thought.
He always had a girlfriend. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember one time throughout our long relationship when he was not seeing someone. And, naturally, he would always discuss his relationships with me. The problems they had. The fights. How she didn’t really understand him. How I was the only one who ever did. Through all those conversations, I always got the feeling that he was trying to feel me out. I believed that he wanted to take our relationship to the next level, but was really afraid of the possible consequences. What if I rejected him? What if I didn’t reject him, but things didn’t work out? What would that do to our friendship? What we had was really special. Was it worth risking on a dream, a fantasy? The same questions had crossed my mind, over and over. What if?... I knew him too well, and I didn’t really think we were compatible for a long-term romantic relationship. I was as afraid as he was to ask the question, to risk everything on a feeling. And so it was that, for the longest time, neither of us ever spoke a word.
But the dreams and fantasies kept getting more and more frequent and passionate, and the feelings stronger. I lived for the next time I would see him again. My own romantic relationships seemed empty and meaningless. My whole life felt like a joke, a script played out by bad actors.
So it was that I decided to tell him. I had to squeeze all my courage from every fiber of my body, but I did it. I really did it! I told him that I loved him. And for one split second in time, it felt great! I did not choose to protect myself, to close myself in my own little shell, to delude myself into thinking that life is supposed to be easy and the pleasure is not worth all the pain. In short, I had joined humanity in its infinite stupidity!
He was trembling as I spoke. When I was finished, the first words out of his mouth were: “I feel the same way...” I held my breath. Was it going to be that easy?
“...But”, he continued, “there is something I haven’t told you: I’m engaged to be married.”
What?
“I didn’t know how to tell you. It felt like I was betraying you in some weird way...”
What?
“She and I have invested a lot in this relationship...”
What? What? What?
Suddenly I was in one of those nightmares in which I was standing naked in the middle of a lot of strangers who were laughing and pointing at me. I let him go on and on about “the right thing to do,” about how he was not ready to explore his feelings for me, about how he couldn’t very well back down and not marry her at that point, about how we probably would never work out anyway and not even be able to be friends anymore, about how fantasy is usually better than reality. I started doubting my decision to tell him; I started doubting myself, my feelings, his feelings.
Vertical Divider
Had I waited too long? “But you said you feel the same way! How can you go on ignoring this? Should you marry someone knowing you have such strong feelings for somebody else?” I tried.
Long pause.
“I need time to think, to process all of this”, he finally said.
Yes. That was the right thing to do. Sure. Give him time to think. That was all he needed, a little time. It was all too much, too soon. Anybody else in the same circumstances would have felt confusion.
So, with an awkward hug, we parted. For a second, as we were saying good-bye, I felt an incredible urge to kiss him. A long, passionate kiss, a take-your-breath-away kiss, a sweep-you-off-your-feet kiss. A kiss that somehow would express all the love and passion I was feeling for him at that moment, all of which I had been painstakingly accumulating for years and years without sharing, like a scrooge. A kiss that would seal my words, be the testimony of all my feelings, my burning, my longing for him. A kiss that would brand me in his soul.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Hadn’t I already pressed too hard, gone too far? What if I ruined my chances by not respecting his wish to have some time to think? That uncertainty was too much to bear. I decided to wait.
For three months I dutifully stayed away, and did not hear a word from him. One night, tired of the endless agony of not knowing, I decided to stop by his apartment, unannounced. It was then that I casually learned from the doorman of his building that he had married and moved away.
Pure sheer pain. A sharp blade cutting through me, neatly, top to bottom. I used to read romantic classics about characters who would kill themselves or slowly die of unrequited love. I had always regarded them as stupid and unrealistic with all the arrogance and the tremendous sense of superiority of those who have never really given themselves to love, but who always know better. How could anybody physically die of love? I understood it now. I, the utmost skeptic, believed it now. I, who had always thought this kind of love was just a fairy tale, was so taken by its overwhelming power that it almost disabled me. All of a sudden, I could see how easily, if I just allowed myself, I would succumb to the pain, the fruitless yearning, the void. I had to will my heart to go on beating, to force my body to continue performing its mundane functions. How much easier it would have been to just stop.
I never saw him again.
Ironically, what has tormented me the most since was not what I did, confessing my love, but what I did not do: the kiss. Maybe, just maybe, that kiss would have unleashed his feelings. Maybe it would have made it harder for him to run away. Maybe it would have made it impossible for him to push me out of his mind, his heart.
Yes, I know. Maybe he was not in love with me anymore. Maybe he never had been. Maybe he did love her deeply and just didn’t have the heart to tell me. If that were true, then the kiss would not have made a difference, but I still would have had its wonderful memory to bring me warmth in all the lonely nights which have passed me by since.
But maybe he was just afraid of the power of his feelings. Maybe he did tell her about me, and tried to leave. And... maybe she gave him that kiss. If I’d only had the courage. If I only... If I... If...
Too late. Too late, too late. It was too late. The harsh truth kept ringing in my ears, making me dizzy, nauseous. Too late. Too late.
I realized too late that it is not enough to seize the moment; you have to be willing to run for your life with it. To the very end. No holds barred.
That missed moment still haunts me as an eternal cliché. It is the floater obstructing my eyesight. The skipped beat of my heart, the second not counted. The question not answered, the scene not played out, the path not taken... The kiss not stolen.