him

The person I most loved in my life was a straight guy. I couldn’t help it, I couldn’t control what I felt, I couldn’t choose not to love him — but well, I loved him so much that I probably would choose to keep loving him despite the pain.

All I could do was be there for him, was to be the best friend he could ever get — I’d do anything and everything for him.

I was there to listen when he had a problem, when he was sad and wondering if the girl he liked would go out with him, to cheer him up, to help him to get closer to her — helping the person you love to have somebody else, that’s crazy, huh? But that’s the sort of thing I would do and then later cry alone wishing I was in that girl’s place.

I wanted him to be happy, and I wanted to be someone he could trust, someone he could rely on, because having his attention made me happy. I knew he could not be mine, so all I would ever get from him was friendship — in fact, this was so clear to me that I’d be more jealous of his other friends than his girlfriend, who was also a friend of mine.

I’m glad I did it. I’m glad he indeed considered me his best friend. I think I would feel much worse if I had not been someone important to him.

One day I told him I liked guys, he was the first person I ever told this. He didn’t believe me at first because there was nothing typically gay about me, he thought I was joking, but nothing changed between us when he realized I was not.

Then, some years later, I finally told him that I had loved him for all those years. His reaction was the best possible reaction one could expect from a friend. He immediately understood me. I didn’t say anything, but he knew I didn’t expect anything other than we already had. He smiled and said he truly appreciated my love. I will never forget that.