Just the other day, you came back from a run while I was sitting alone in your living room, having a minor major crisis about where you could possibly be, who you could possibly be with, if this summer might turn out to be like last year when you snuck someone in to replace me so fast it made my head spin and my heart ache.
You were breathing hard, sweaty and smelly, and then you were on me in that football-tackle hold, covering my body with your sweat and your smell. And as I hugged you back without flinching, I realized that there was no way that our friendship could get any more confusing.
I’ve been wanting to, needing to, struggling to write about this for at least a year now. Maybe two.
And you probably definitely already know this, since you seem to know everything else about me, anyway.
But as I try so hard to put it all into words, it only feels forced, fake, ridiculous. And obvious.
So I think I am going to keep this one to myself. For now, for once, it feels so much more right tucked away inside.