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  • monday, february 18, 2013

    over the years i will forget the precise details of this story, but i will always remember how you told it.

    we went to san francisco, the place where i dreaded yet most wanted to be with you. dread because the city stirs within me a romance that i have yet to achieve with any human being, including you. want because only there, in the fog and chill, would i be able to stand close to you and feel myself looking at you, wondering if anyone who sees us thinks we might be a couple.

    during our trip to haight street, i read your calmness as contentment, and felt slightly disappointed that you didn’t feel as energized as i did. in the past year, i realized that our friendship operates on a mutual feeling of trust, but even more so on the fact that i would go out of my way to do anything for you. aside from the people living with you, not many got to see you at your lowest state: empty, plastic to-go boxes stacked on your desk, clothes unceremoniously dumped on the bed, and then there was you. your room looked like a train wreck, but you looked worse.

    moving in the open air with you, away from that dark stifling cell of a rental, i could breathe a little easier, but still have to hold myself back from being too close to you. the night before, when you let me share your bed, you told me about the insecurities you grew up with and how your family would rarely discuss problems openly. you’re so self-conscious of yourself, and that is where you get me. i want to be the one who protects you from the deeply embedded fears. i want to hold you, but not initiate anything else because in my mind, i belong to you although you don’t see me as more than a close friend.
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