III
11:58 a.m.

Kev -

Why do I keep pouring my heart into these anonymous letters, instead of actually using a gut and telling you? I am so afraid you'll hurt me. I'm afraid of rejection and disappointment. I know, deep in me, I know that I don't have the proverbial snowball's chance of being what you want - but as long as I leave it unsaid, unspoken, in my imagination you could love me like I do you.

I have the freedom to interpret things you said, things you did, ways you looked - anyway I want to. That moment at the pub sing, not long after we met, when our eyes locked for a full song and I thought there was nothing so blue and beautiful in the world...I can imagine you thinking much the same thing about my own less glamorous drab brown eyes. That first amazing night, with margaritas and the two of us running away from Crazy Amy, dancing in the drum circle...I can imagine that when you put your arm around me, it was from something more than tequila and friendship.

Same place, weeks later, I can imagine that your whispered conversation with N. was not about how to let me know gently that you were seeing her and weren't interested in me but were, in fact, letting her down easy instead. I can imagine that you asked M. to talk to me about you, to find out if I felt what you did. I can interpret your gift - the wonderfully silly Slinky that sits in the box where I keep only my dearest treasures - and the fact that you argued with A. about who would get to buy it...I can take it as a sign of your jealousy over his attentions.

The night you came out with A. and I, ostensibly to keep my sister company, I can pretend that you just wanted to be there, to see me. The night we spent housesitting together, when I got silly drunk on margaritas and your company and you curled across my lap while we watched a movie - I can pretend that it felt like coming home to you, too.

And that last night, at dinner, driving around, and later on the couch with my roommate in the next room, I can pretend that there were the same words lurking on your tongue as on mine - that your distracted driving and curt replies to my repetitious voicing of "What's wrong?" were a result of repressed emotion. That when you said, "You know what this is about," you meant that I knew you were gutless and frightened of what we both could feel, just like I was. Just like I am.

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