Hey Al.
I know this is cheesy, me writing a letter and everything, but I can't bring myself to tell you out loud. Not straight off the bat. Maybe after I know you've read this I'll be able to talk about it, if you want me to.
Now I'm trying to write it down, I can't think of anything to say. I guess you've always been my best mate, and I'm really glad about that. You're amazing. I know you know that, and I know everyone else that you meet knows that, but I want you to know that I think that, and I think I thought it first, to be honest. I think you're amazing.
The times I love the most are when it's just us two, so we don't have to worry about how close we get, what we talk about, how long we just spend smiling at each other. Mostly with our guitars or a film on. I don't even know what we talk about half the time, but I love talking to you. You make me laugh and I like your voice, I could listen to it for hours – I sometimes do! I want you to know that I'm fine with that, all of it. I hope you are too, or you wouldn't want to spend time with me. And I always will be, whatever 'that' actually ever means. Are you getting my drift? I bloody hope so.
I want to spend more time with just you, Al. But it's getting dangerous now, because every time it's just the two of us, I get so tempted. Whenever there are other people around I can use them as an excuse to get away from you for a minute and collect myself. But otherwise, my chest gets really tight and my throat goes all weird and I suddenly get really hot, and my eyes water and all this weird stuff that sounds like hayfever but it isn't, cos I know it's you that does it to me. Fuck, it's even happening a little now, writing this out.
I'm not nearly as poetic or good with words as you are, Alex, and none of these paragraphs have really made it any easier for me to say what I actually fucking want to say.
I love seeing your name written down like that, especially in my handwriting. It sounds so beautiful in my head. I love and relish saying it out loud.
I feel on edge every time we get close, like there's some kind of static energy around you. You send little electric shocks through me every time you actually touch me and it makes my heart jump. Whenever you look me in the eye, the opposite happens and it's like my heart has slowed down instead. Your eyes are so big and dark and deep and beautiful. Your mouth makes me want to cry; your lips are perfect. Whatever you do with that mouth, whether you're talking, singing, smoking, smiling… it can do no wrong and I spend far too long staring at it. You know something I'd really love? I want to know if your lips are as soft as they look. I want to run my fingertips over them. I want them on mine. I want you to fucking kiss me Al, I've said it. Just thinking about it makes me feel dizzy.
I know it's highly likely that you won't read this far, because I know you won't like what you're reading. I'm sorry. I just can't put up with trying to hide it any more. I know telling you isn't going to make it any better, but it'll make it different, and I need a change, because this is killing me. If you don't ever want to spend time alone with me again, that's fine. But please don't cut me off completely. You're the best friend I've ever had, and I hope that I've meant something to you. I know you've got cooler, more attractive, generally better people as your friends than I could ever hope to be, but I also know that I've been in your life for a long time and I think it'd be a shame if that had to end. So I'm so sorry for doing this. It's selfish, and I'm already beginning to consider burning this piece of paper but I won't because I've spent far too long thinking about telling you to throw it all away now. I said at the beginning that I might come and talk to you after I know you've read it, but in reality that's not going to happen. I'm going to keep quiet and nothing's going to change. If you want, I'll just fade into the background and you won't even notice I'm there. I'm sure that won't be too hard.
I'm so sorry. You're my best friend.
Miles