Back to the Story

At first it seemed he was inventing reasons to show up at my apartment: to administer a survey for one of his classes, to prove that my life was empty without Calvin and Hobbes, to drop things off or pick them up. Sometimes he would come to ask me on another date and then we would go out to: hike Y mountain, watch a movie, attend concerts on campus, visit his mission friends. Sometimes he would see me reading in the grass outside my apartment building on his way home from campus and stop to talk.

Eventually though, the excuses had run out and we were unabashedly spending every spare moment together. My grades suffered and I barely noticed. The more time I had with him, the more I thought I wanted.

I realized subconsciously that I was falling in love, but I still wasn't saying it out loud, because though that feeling was lovely and exciting, in reality, this time of falling was incredibly tumultuous. It foiled all of my plans, it changed what I thought I was becoming, it undid the deepest friendship I had ever experienced. I would fully enjoy my time with Patrick and then go home to cry. What I thought would be the most happy time of my life was stained by bitter loss and anxiety. I was constantly worried that I was messing everything up. I felt somewhat like I was losing myself. I suffered this privately. It's hard for me to recount, because I want to color our story brilliantly. It ended brilliantly, but if I am honest in the retelling, I have to paint this part with dark tones. This time was so full of contradictions and inward turmoil. The confusion overwhelmed me in the quiet moments.

Though our days were filled with each other, we did not have a name for our relationship or really any expectations. After the fiasco on our second date, he never again tried to hold my hand or anything further. I remember one time a roommate and her boyfriend invited us to watch a movie with them in my apartment. They were closely cuddled on one couch, holding hands, rubbing backs and the like. Patrick and I were uncomfortably situated on the other couch with a clear bumper of air separating us from even accidental contact. I remember recognizing the stark awkwardness and inwardly chuckling at it. I also accepted date invitations from other guys to prove my apathy (to myself really). If it weren't for the unmistakable feeling floating between us, anyone, including myself, could have believed that we were in a strictly platonic arrangement.

This lasted for about a month. We saw each other almost every day and would spend hours talking and laughing and playing. It was a comfortable friendship and if that's all it ever was everything would have been fine, but it wasn't. Finally one evening, the last week of March, we were laughing and talking at the playground of a nearby elementary school. It was dark, the playground lit dimly orange by a street lamp in the parking lot. We climbed over the equipment, playing some sort of game and somehow both landed in a heap at the bottom of the twisty slide. We kept talking and laughing, staying right there in our tangled heap. When it was time to leave, I realized we were holding hands. It was so lovely that I went home and cried.