|The Life of The Lost Girl: a creative fictional diary, sometimes based on certain factual truths.|
I had this best friend once, we were close. People often mistook us as a couple, but we weren't—just friends. There were times when I liked him, and I think at times he liked me too, but we never said anything. He had girlfriends and I was too afraid, waiting for Mr Right or focusing on Mr Popular (my fantasy life). I was the shy kind, the girl who barely spoke, but my best friend was the opposite—he just told you how it is and that's what I liked about him.
We had a confusing relationship you see, like sometimes I saw him as my brother, and other times I thought he was 'right' for me. He was cute in his own way, charming in others, but there was something else about him that I never wanted to admit—something I knew would eventually hurt me.
The day I met him was my first day of another year in high school. I found him funny, easy to talk to, a little geeky and somewhat girly—he liked to bitch. I had this suspicion that he had a crush on me at first, but what the fuck did I know? He was the first guy who ever bothered actually talking to me. So from that day on, we were good friends. He was the first guy to accept me and it made me happy, especially since I was afraid of boys.
So as we grew up, experiencing the "joys" of teenhood and puberty, mixed feelings and hormones, our relationship turned into a game of 'Does he? Doesn't he?', but I never let it affect our friendship. I played it dumb, often at times denying it so it was easier that way. And like I said, he had girlfriends, and when he had girlfriends, he became distant, even though we were "just friends" so it got confusing. But then I noticed a pattern: he liked me every time I got over him and I liked him every time he had a girlfriend. Typical, right?
I got over it and accepted life as friends, it felt more fitting and it was more comfortable that way. We had something good after all and I didn't want to ruin it with romance, or whatever it could have been. Friendship is less complicated than love and less messy anyway. Complicated is me after all.
But then one night, I thought everything would change. We were both at a party, he was single, had a little bit to drink and was more friendly than usual. His face would brighten up every time he saw me, he had this look of adoration in his eyes each time we looked at each other and he would always be nearby. That was the night I felt things had changed, that something was different, and it felt right. Like those cheesy romance movies you see when the friends realise they want to be more than just friends.
So when it was time for me to go, he wrapped his arms around me with a long embrace. A part of me didn't want him to let go, or myself to let go of him for that matter, and I think he felt the same way. It was the only time it felt like we were on the same page, that the feelings were mutual, and maybe they were. I opened my mind to the possibility and my heart to a potential love, and right as I did, thinking things would finally be different, reality and disappointment hit me like a gust of wind. He liked one of the girls at the party, or maybe that was his bullshit lie because he was just like me—afraid to take a chance and scared of ruining the friendship. Nothing ever happened.
We stayed as friends; he helped me with boy troubles, I helped him with girl troubles, you know, the things normal friends do. He picked me up when I had fallen for an idiot, and I listened and tried to understand every issue he had in his life as he did with me, too. Until he began mixing with the wrong crowd...
He changed into those typical guys I hate—and ironically enough, the ones he hated too—the ones who care more about their car than their friends, the ones who try to act all tough and macho, the real douchebags who go by the saying "treat them mean, keep them keen" bullcrap. He became cocky and arrogant, self-centred and self-absorbed, and most of all, distant.
Our hugs turned into quick hellos, the kiss on the cheek turned into a small forced smile, the general conversations I enjoyed with him turned into annoying small arguments of our differences, and the look of adoration in his eyes changed into those I didn't recognise. The boy who meant a lot to me, my best friend, was someone else. He wasn't the boy I liked, the one who was proof that good guys do exist, the one who taught me I shouldn't be afraid, the one who made me feel accepted, loved and appreciated, the one who faded away before my own eyes.
I would be lying if I say I don't miss him and the times we spent together, and how when everyone was drunk one time at a club, we were the only ones who were sober and had the best night in each other's company. He felt like home to me, someone I felt safe with, and I miss that. I miss my best friend.
I can still remember the last time I saw him—the friend that I once knew. I hugged him goodbye that day and it actually felt like the last time I would ever see him again. It was, to a point, and a part of me knew that. He smiled at me, that same soft and genuine smile he used to give me. And before he turned around and waved me goodbye, I caught a glimpse of that same look in his eyes, the look I used to see each time he saw me—the same look he had when he let go of me after our embrace that night. But there was also a certain sadness in them, as if in that moment, he knew too. And then he was gone.