A Present Work of Fiction
No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I love you. I’m sorry I feel this way so strongly about you, because it makes me discontent in being just a friend. I hate how that makes me feel when I’m with you. I wish I didn’t hate it, I wish it was something I could just let go, but I can’t.
Listen, I’m not angry, and I’m not trying to make you feel guilty. I don’t want to you to feel responsible for how sour I am about this. But there’s something I’ve been meaning to say for a long time now.
As far back as I can remember, any relationship I’ve had with a woman (or lack thereof) has surely always been about some shallow conquest. Sex, beauty, envy. But not with you, these are not the reasons why I love you, why I’ve told you I love you in the past. Not for sex, not out of envy, not even for how beautiful I think you are. I’m fed up with chasing after these vanities because that’s what dudes do, and I hope I can safely assume that you and I are on the same frequency as to what type of person I’m referring to when I say “dude.” I don’t want to be like them. And in some sick, frustrating, convoluted way I don’t want to be like them and at the same time I know that I can’t be like them. I’ve tried, I just can’t. I simply don’t have the charisma and confidence to do what they do.
I truly believe, the reason that I’ve grown to love you the way I do, is because every girl, woman, female that I’ve ever crossed paths with, you’re the only one that showed the amount of enthusiasm and warmth to me that you have, despite my social ineptitude. When I’m with you, I feel like I play a significant role in your life, and that the times for you would be different, perhaps harder if I wasn’t around. Over time, I let that develop into attachment, and eventually, into love. So despite what I said the first time I told you, it was not love at first sight, but it didn’t make the rest any less true.
You remember that night, after the concert. And I know you weren’t pleased with what I did after I told you. But like I said before, I didn’t know what I was doing that night. I had never told a girl I loved her, let alone had one laying in my bed. Seriously. And it wasn’t until the summer after, following certain despondencies you don’t deserve me mentioning, how bad I fucked it up. I realized I did a very stupid thing. And in my shame I took that love and bottled it up, kept it out of your sight the best I could, because I didn’t want to do something stupid like bring it up again and mess with your enthusiasm and warmth, the reasons why I grew to love you how I do.
And, well, I did just that. I once again ruined what would’ve been another wonderful night. I’d have said good night, you’d have said happy birthday, you’d get out of this car, I’d go home, and everything would be the same as it ever was. But I didn’t say good night, and now I’m scared, nay terrified, because now that I’ve said all of this to you, things between us may never be the same again.
No, I’m sorry.