"A Perfect Penumbra"

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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, alignment is almost always forced. There were no stars. There was never even a sky. No eclipse between moon and sun. No phenomena, no nebula. Just light-years of distance between his world and mine. I loved him with ambiguity—his imperfections, his standoffish persona, his insecurities. But that isn't love; it's an aspiration. If he's unreachable, then why am I reaching? 


Did he love me? No. He just loved the attention I gave him, the attention no woman has or will. But the truth is that there wasn't a moment when he touched me that he didn't envision her. I was the brightest star in his sky; that much is true. He just never looked up. Not once. Then one night, I was gone, but he didn't know that either.

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