I didn't know.
He was my friend. My best friend. The best friend I had ever known. He understood me like nobody had ever done before. We connected like he was the other part of me; the part I hadn't realised was missing.
And I didn't know.
We would laugh and joke, talk about life and love about anything and everything.
But I didn't know.
When he said that he loved me I was afraid. It didn't sound right, not from him, not in the way he meant it. When he said he would leave that scared me even more, life without him in it wasn't something I could face. So I asked him to stay, and he stayed.
But I still didn't know.
When he kissed me I pushed him away. To my shame I turned my back on him. He was my friend and I betrayed him. The pain I caused was far more than the physical bruises I inflicted, I hurt him far deeper than I knew I could.
But how could I not know?
And then he was gone. The friendship that I had treasured was lost through my own stupidity and cowardice. With him went the better part of myself and I was left alone in a world that suddenly seemed colder and more hostile than I ever remembered.
Why did I not know?
When I saw him again he was a stranger. The friend I had known was no more. He stood before me as a man. A man who didn't need me anymore. A man who had found the love he deserved.
When I saw them kiss, that's when I knew.
I knew that I loved him.
And I knew I was too late.