Why didn’t you stop me that morning when I ran away from your house in a hysterical fury?
Why didn’t you tell me that we could fill the missing space in each other’s lives?
And why do you keep showing up in my life when I least expect it, filling it with your voice, your scent, your silences your smiles?
Why do I keep leading myself on, knowing full well that there’s nothing more for me than what I already have? Nothing else exists. Because a man like you, Ian O’Connor, could never really be interested in me, in what I was and what I still am.
And why do you continue to look at me that way, as if you can read my mind or worse yet, are thinking the same things and keeping them to yourself?
Why, Ian?
Why aren’t you the one I share all my moments with?
“What do you think, shall we watch another film?” he asks, interrupting my stupid fantasy.
“Sure.”
Anything to get him to stay a little longer.
“I’ll bring the glasses into the living room,” I say, hopping down from the table and picking them up. I need to distance myself from him so that I can regroup, regain control of my emotions so that Ian can’t see my need – my desire – to be more than just his friend.
Wrong, painful.
Heavy.
I head into the living room, set the glasses on the table in front of the sofa, and then turn around to hurt myself a little more.
Because all of this hurts me. His presence. His interest. His friendship.
He hurts me.
He who makes me hope and believe.
Something that makes me desire.
I’m starting to want something. For myself.
Him. I want him.
But this is nothing but a doomed romance – and I’d rather not know how it ends.
