unrequited

I hugged him twice. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted so much to feel him hug me harder the second time. For him to maybe not let go this time, but once again it was all too brief and he left.

It had taken a lot for me to get the nerve to hug him. I never realized before how much wanting to be near and to touch another person could hurt so badly.

I felt dimmer after he left, not unlike having basked in some subtle light, and then being left in darkness. I stood in my entrance with a very definite feeling of how alone I am. I wondered if he ever felt the same.

We had been on the couch. The short couch since I don’t have another one anymore. The only other seat was a folding chair, so he sat on the couch. I have never been so aware how I sat next to someone before. Every time he moved, or when I went to get something I was hyper-aware of just how far I sat from him, or how much he or I shifted.

We had seen movies together before… watched TV, played video games, hung out, but never at my place. There was a moment when I felt a Herculean effort, and I lay down on the couch stretching my legs across him. I worried he would either get up and leave, or out right tell me not to do that, which would embarrass me. I could feel the apprehension building within me, and instead I grabbed the blanket and told him he was going to be my ottoman. He barely responded, and the couch was so short my feet mostly rested on the armrest, but I could feel the warmth of his legs beneath mine.

‘God, you’re an idiot,’ I thought to myself. ‘This isn’t how other girls do it.’ I had been fantasizing and planning to get him over to my place to watch a movie for ages -almost as long as I had known him, but it had never happened before.

Stupid things had gotten in the way; our mutual friends, the fact we rarely see each other which reduces the casual “wanna come over” that would have been a perfect segue, to my paralysing nervousness around him -not to mention my terminal fear of relationships. I had worked so hard just to be his friend without scaring him off –without scaring *myself* off, and after so long we were just ‘hanging out’. As pathetic as it sounded, it felt like a victory. We were alone. Just the two of us.

A notoriously shy guy he rarely opened up when around people. Usually he would quietly sit by himself while his best friend loudly commanded the room, joshing with people until deciding it was time to go. I remember the first time we really talked I found out more than I thought I would about this introverted guy, who was far smarter, and more talented than I would have given him credit for.

I think that’s what hooked me. He was so unassuming. After a while I even began to understand his strange relationship with his best friend. How could two so totally different guys be best friends?

Not everyone is an alpha dog. I had figured this out a long time ago, but never understood how some people could be happy not running things. The guy next to me on the couch, watching the movie while I had my legs across his lap somehow personified this for me. He just didn’t care to be the focus of attention. And then he became mine.

My focus, that is. I could be running an errand and see a movie and then *bam* I would be wondering if it’s something he would like to see. Or the weekend would roll around, and I would debate hard on sending a text message enquiring, “Hey. What are you up to this weekend?”

I wonder if he knew I was his. It had taken me a while to figure out. It wasn’t a falling in love, but more of a gradual wading into it. Little things he would do or say would catch my attention, and over time they built up until I noticed a very solid foundation of reasons why I liked him.

One of the first things that got me was I almost fell over when I found out he played the bagpipes. I didn’t know anyone else who did, and I had studied the chanter in my youth. You either love them or hate them, and more often than not people hated them, never mind wanted to know how to *play* them. This led to long talks about music, Scotland, our family histories, and our mutual desire to go to the highlands.

I made it my mission to see and hear him play. The idea of him in a kilt made me nervous and excited. Finding out this new link was something completely random and I clung to it. We had more in common than I had known, and no one else had this. There was something insanely special to me about having this connection with him that none of our mutual friends had. Like I was allowed to see a part of him no one else could.

The night he confidently divulged that he in fact played better than another recently celebrated player in his band I saw a side of him I had not seen before. He had been confident, and a little arrogant. I remembered thrilling at this because I had never seen him be proud of something he had done before. He was good, and he knew it. He wasn’t an ass or a braggart about it either. He just stated rather baldly “I’m better than him,” with a smile, and I felt a feeling of pride for him I had not felt for anyone before.

I remained curled up on the couch hoping for… something. A move, by him, or by me, I couldn’t tell. Suddenly I had the intense desire for him to just shift me over a bit and lie down beside me. I could almost feel his arm automatically curving around me to hold me as we lay on the couch. Maybe he would take my hand, or I would take his in mine. I had held his hand once before, but had screwed it up as I usually did. I thought about it and decided I would take his if he made to lie next to me. But he didn’t. The absence of him next to me was tangible. The space between me and the back of the couch felt hollow. But I refused to move.

He had picked me up from a bar that night. I had decided what the hell and had texted him to see if on a long shot maybe he’d want to come out. After some back and forth I had received a text stating he was pretty tired. It was, after all, pretty late I mentally agreed. I cursed myself for not trying earlier, and simultaneously for trying at all. Closing myself off the familiar feeling of disappointment and rejection I shut my cell phone and looked around the bar.

I had no inclination to stick around and fake happy anymore that night. I was tired. Tired of the bar, tired of trying to be happy, tired of trying to make things work and thinking if maybe I go through the motions eventually it will click and I would *be* happy. Tired of wanting just to be with a guy who I had no real clue if he even liked me as a steady friend, never mind potential girlfriend. I finished my beer and was debating on which cab company to call when he had sent me a new message.

I was a bit shocked, but gave him directions nonetheless and we wound up getting some burgers. He even got a case of my favourite beer for us. The whole time I was telling myself over and over not to get my hopes up, but I still couldn’t believe it when he picked me up and agreed to a movie. Maybe when you get nothing for so long the crumbs you get tossed seem huge.

I could still feel the pang of empty, and knew that as much as I wanted him, experience told me again and again I couldn’t have what I wanted. But for the moment I enjoyed how he insisted on paying for the food and beer. How he bantered easily with me about the things in his life. Things I wished I was a part of.

Another time, long ago we had been sitting on a couch together at a friend’s house watching cartoons for hours on end. I had passed a few beers around when it occurred to me I had forgotten to pick up cigarettes. Instead, I picked up one from his pack and looked for a lighter. There wasn’t one. So instead, and tapped him on the shoulder lightly and held out my hand. He glanced from my hand, to me, and then took my hand in his and rested it on his leg. I was dumbfounded. Shocked. But not shocked into silence, because I found myself talking.

“I wanted your lighter.”

I was mentally cursing and screaming at myself before the words were out all the way but the damage was done. He quickly let go of my hand, retrieved his lighter from his pocket, and then turned back towards the projected TV screen. I was devastated. I sat, frozen with his lighter in my hand. The thought that I am my own worst enemy hung heavy in my mind.

His father passed away a while back, and I remember how easily everyone else hugged him, or told him how sorry they felt for him. Condolences rolled off their tongues, and I remember standing frigid in the lightly falling snow and watched how one of the thinner, hotter, friendly girls at the theatre hugged him when she heard the news. She was my friend, but I wanted to hit her. I wanted to scream. I wanted to let him know how much I was hurting for him. Instead I stood. I don’t think I ever told him I felt anything about his loss. I had no words.

I felt so selfish for only thinking of myself and how much I wanted to be with him through his trying time, but only for how it would make me feel. I felt shallow and terrible. The only thing that made me feel better was oddly enough what had happened when I first found out about his dad’s death.

We had been standing by the television watching a hockey game in the lounge when it came up. I had asked him how his dad was when his friend cut me off to tell the tale. I remember half listening, while watching him watch the screen. I don’t think he was watching the game anymore, but was closing down inside as the story of how his dad passed was reiterated for another person. I felt close to him, but in a strange way. ‘He closes down like me,’ was all I could think.

He sat next to me for the rest of the movie, only moving when we disagreed about who was what actor from which movie. A quick internet search proved he was right and I wrong, but I continued my bravado with arguments of “But he looks so different with that hair!” and so on. We were quite at ease at this point, joking over top the movie, and resumed our legs on lap position so naturally I was surprised I didn’t have a mini-mental freak-out about it.

It was quite late at this point as the movie ended and the regular TV programming came on. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I refused to move. Moments like these with him came so few and far between, if at all, and I was determined to make it last as long as I could. ‘Gremlins’ were on, and the next thing I knew I was out.

We awoke an hour or so later. The next movie on the station had already begun, and according to him it was ‘Gremlins 2’. Having lost the previous movie dispute, I instead yawned and marvelled at how he manages to fall asleep sitting up. I had seen it before at other people’s houses. One of my favourite memories of him was how his head would dip further and further until it would drop, and then when his chin hit his chest, he would pop back up. It’s funnier when he has a beer because he then notices his beer, takes a sip, and repeats the process.

It was five in the morning now. The panicky, nervous feeling in my chest started again, and I slowly removed my legs from across his lap. Does he want to stay? Could I get him to stay? I wished that somehow in our sleep we had wound up next to each other lying down, arms around each other, and decided we liked it that way. Or that he felt comfortable enough to sleep next to me in my bed, and not just in a strange position on my couch.

Instead he said he had to go, and we got up and I walked him to the door. I hugged him twice. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted so much to feel him hug me harder the second time. For him to maybe not let go this time, but once again it was all too brief and he left.