A Season of Winter

There's this lingering sadness that I couldn't be the girl of his dreams. The complexity. The disclosure that he liked girls, but he loved me. Somewhere among the lost pages of my youth, I fell in love with a boy beyond my reach. Until he wasn't. I used to rehearse conversations, looking over at the passenger seat, envisioning him sitting there. That night, he was. My hand traced the lines on his palm, hoping my name was written on it. I breathed him like fresh air when I knew he was radioactive. I kept breathing it in, just until it killed me.   I've heard that straight crushes are canon for queer people. Maybe it's our quiet longing to be someone's turning point, their exception. If I love him in a way no woman can, in a way only a queer boy can—the way we wish to be loved—then maybe he'll choose me. It works in the world of BL stories and gay romance, so why not in real life?    The truth is, no offering of love—in amount or sincerity—will make someone lo...

As it is written, he's straight  and has a girlfriend . And still, I managed to convince both of us that he loved me. The casual holding of hands and friendly embraces in the back seat of his car—some might call it platonic, but I felt all the feelings friends shouldn't feel for each other. I'd tell him I loved him, and he'd hesitate. So I'd reassure him—it's not gay to love a friend. If only to hear him say it back, if only to hear it. The word "love" is spelled the same way no matter how you mean it.  While I had convinced him that he loved me, he never did confess. His expression, despite the many memories we shared, was cold. There was nothing in his eyes that said "I want to be with you." Contrary to my intention, he was steadfastly indifferent. He spent time with me because he had the time, not because he had the desire. And while I didn't have the time, I had my delusion to feed, lest it starve.    When it comes to first love, alig...