After almost a year of celibacy following some significant emotional turmoil, I met D, a seemingly lackadaisical burnout who barely caught my interest when I met him.
Within a few weeks, my interest in him went from passing to halted, and I lost all interest when I saw him at a club one night, on the mostly empty dancefloor with a girl whose face I barely registered. And for all I appeared blasé when I saw him later that night, I had to acknowledge this seething jealousy burning in the pit of my tummy. I wasn’t as disinterested as I kept insisting I was.
He proved to be a good friend. A great friend when I was in need. Some needs more surprising than others. And I found myself stumbling into a confusing mess of emotion, convincing myself I wasn’t in love. That aspect was easy enough, we both were very clear about our intentions. But actions tend to blur lines that words don’t, and when he proved to be a warmer, more caring, confidant than I ever gave him credit for, I found myself stumbling again. We do so feel the urge to connect to others on a more than basic level, that we oft ignore our previous resolutions.
However, my confused feelings notwithstanding, he continued to be his same, frustating and endearing in equal measure, self. Bad decisions are the bread and butter of our youth, and he wasn’t immune. And maybe I was just so eager to lose my feelings towards him that I was unforgiving of his, but I latched onto that flaw of his like a leech to a wound. I needed to. I needed to wean myself off of my affinity for him, and I was tired of how long “the right way” would have taken.
Here I am now, wistfully looking back at my time with D, knowing that his time and mine is past. At least…in that aspect. He and I continue to be friends, though for how long is not something I can or even want to foresee.
And my purrrsuit continues.