You told me you loved me, once. Once upon a time.
I didn't know what to say. I didn't love you.
I had never noticed, I told you. Did you really?
You only shrugged, looked away as I tried to decipher the exact nature of the glint in your eyes.
I'm good at hiding things, you told me.
We never brought it up again.
I didn't think much of it, at first. Why would I? You weren't in love with me any more, so why bother?
Time passed though, and I found myself thinking about it more and more, to a point where I'd consider the idea far too often to be considered chance.
You loving me. You, in love with me.
It's strange, I told myself. Weird.
You should not have loved me. We were best friends, after all. Best friends aren't in love with each other.
But as the days went on, I realized these thoughts were only a feeble attempt to stifle the warmth I felt in my cheeks, the lightness of my heart when I'd entertain the idea.
You loving me. You, in love with me.
I didn't know what this feeling was, but I figured there was no point in exploring it further.
You'd met someone, by then.
I'd see the meaningful glances you would share and the fleeting touches you would brush off with a flustered laugh.
No point, I told myself.
A year passed and I still hadn't forgotten your bashful confession.
I'd catch myself thinking about your arms around me and your lips on mine.
I ignored it.
I was there when you confessed, I was there when you ran into their arms, eyes so full of love it made my heart ache.
All I could think was that I was first.
Many months have come and gone since then, and I'm ashamed to admit I still think about it.
You're happy now. Settled.
You've found the one, I can tell.
You both are perfect for each other.
Occasionally though, you will have your spats.
I can see how much it hurts you when you fight, how awful it makes you feel when they act so flippant about it, when it seems like they couldn't care less about what's troubling you.
You always fix it. You both push it under the rug and fall back into each other like nothing else matters.
And I feel terrible wishing that you wouldn't.
I feel terrible wishing that someday, your arguments will break you apart for good.
I feel even worse wishing that you'd come running back to me, that you'd fall into my arms, that you'd tell me you love me once again and look at me with so much affection that it would fill the emptiness in my soul when I see you two together, lovers.
I'm a monster, I know.
It's unfair, you would tell me. It's unfair for you to feel all these things five years too late, far past the time when I wanted to hear them.
I know.
So I'll stay here, behind my forced smile, and watch you as you fall deeper and deeper in love with someone who isn't me.
I'll laugh when you tease me and I'll nod when you tell me you'll find the right person, swallow down the words trying to crawl out my throat, you are my person.
You won't notice it.
I'll do what you did, once upon a time.
I'm good at hiding things.
And maybe, just maybe, I'll tell you all of this somewhere down the line, years and years and years into the future and maybe, just maybe, we can laugh about the irony of it all.
