You and I

by brittana7

You and I have always been different from each other. Total opposites in fact

Dear best friend,,

You and I have always been different from each other. Total opposites in fact. You - calm, thoughtful, kind, emotional. You've always been a people pleaser. I don't mean that in a bad way necessarily. I just learnt very early on that you'd rather keep your thoughts and feelings to yourself than risk someone thinking badly of you, or worse, a confrontation. Me, I've never been like that. Stubborn, headstrong, I speak my mind, even when I shouldn't. I've never shied away from confrontations. You know that. If something or someone pisses me off, they'll be told about it. I don't know if that's necessarily a good thing or not, but it's just the way I am.

So I think people were somewhat surprised when we became friends, and such good friends at that. I think I was too to be honest. Two people who are so totally contrasted from each other often find it difficult to get along. Even we did at the start. We argued a lot, I remember. You'd get confused by my Gemini mood swings and I'd get exasperated by your reluctance to speak your mind. But somehow we did get along. I'm not quite sure when it happened, when we first began to click - like really click - but we did. I often think about it actually; I try to work out why our friendship suddenly worked, or pin point a specific moment that triggered it, but I can't. There was just this sort of silent communication that happened between us - an unspoken agreement - that we were going to be best friends.

It's such a great feeling isn't it? When you know that you're someone's favourite person. And they're yours too. You feel happy, safe somehow. You know that in every argument, they're automatically going to take your side, even if they think you're being a total idiot. You can count on them only ever saying nice things behind your back. You can be sure that there'll always be a seat saved for you at lunch. And that's what we did. For years. We took each other's side, we said nice things behind each other's backs, we saved seats. We laughed hysterically at our own secret jokes, we hugged and cooed over each other like no one else was in the room. We planned our summers and our gap years and even beyond that, not stopping to wonder if we were leaving someone out or if we seemed exclusive. Because it felt so good.

But somewhere along the way (and again I'm not exactly sure when) something changed. Not drastically, not all at once - I don't even think I noticed at the time - but it did change. Faltered. Shifted slightly. With older boyfriends and new attention, your confidence seemed to grow and grow, while mine seemed to do the opposite. That happy, safe feeling would be interrupted - just occasionally - by competitiveness, jealousy, bitterness. Not all the time, but just every now and then. It would spike at my chest, flare up inside me before I'd bury it deep again. But it appeared more and more frequently over the years, and I started to lose control of it. I felt other people's eyes on me. They could see it. I think even you could see it. And so this long, internal struggle inside me began, which I still haven't managed to win. I'd struggle between being so happy to be your best friend, even just to be around you, and then resenting you; blaming you for all my problems and how things had changed. Between needing you so much and then not needing you at all. Between being the confident, carefree person I always was, and then that self conscious, jealous person I was becoming. I was so jealous of you. Your friends, your figure, boys, all of that. But then I started to feel a different kind of jealous, a kind that I didn't recognise. Only looking back is it clear enough to identify. I wasn't actually jealous of you. I was jealous of everyone else. Friends, boys, everyone. When you'd hug them and coo over them like you would with me. When you'd smile or laugh hysterically with them like we did. When you shared secret jokes that I wasn't a part of. When you told me you'd kissed him. Or had sex with him. Or were thinking of going out with him. When you didn't make me feel like it was only us in the room. I felt this pang of something I didn't quite understand back then. Or maybe I just didn't want to. Was I jealous that you had a boyfriend because I didn't have one? Or was it something else? I didn't know, and I still don't. So I buried it. Ignored it. Distracted myself. Convinced myself I was upset because I didn't get the boys' attention anymore. When really it was only yours that I wanted. I didn't see it then though. What I saw was you, and how happy and confident and enamoured you were. And how I wasn't. It was easier to blame you and to resent you, than to try to identify what I actually felt towards you.

It was confusing. It still is. I still don't understand it. It was so confusing because I couldn't pin point anything I was feeling. You know sometimes I'd seem down or pissed off, but never actually have a reason? Or you could tell I wanted to talk about something but I didn't quite know how to? Or what to even talk about? The thing is, sometimes I felt like we were on the same page. Sometimes you'd smile at me like that again, or hug me in that way you did, or stay up all night talking with me. You'd look at me like that and I felt like it was just us again - like we were all that mattered - and whatever I was feeling, you were feeling it too. And it was exciting. But then in a breath it would be gone. Someone else would come over to join us and your attention would turn to them. Or the conversation would suddenly shift onto him and the air would deflate from my lungs. Or that spark in your eyes when you looked at me would vanish and you'd be normal, nonchalant again. And I'd be reeling. Confused. Sad and I didn't know why.

And then little things would happen. Tiny things. Affectionate touches and playful flirting. Lingering hugs and drunken kisses on the lips. Throw away comments that I'd hold onto, and read into, but that you'd forget instantly.

And then bigger things would happen. Like travelling. The full moon party. Kissing you. It's all a bit of a drunken haze, but I remember it. Like exactly how it felt to kiss you. How I really didn't want to stop kissing you. But you said that we should. I remember how I told you it was fine, it was just fun, we were drunk. And we kept going. Then you said we should stop again. And I didn't know if you wanted to stop because you didn't like it, or because you liked it too much. And how it happened the next night. And the next. We'd joke about it. You'd announce that there must be something in the air in Thailand. Or maybe the full moon did crazy things to people. We'd laugh. A little too hard. You'd brush it off. I'd pretend I didn't feel that knot in my stomach. We made out again. Bikinis. Sand. Ocean. I couldn't get enough. And I remember how I made that pretty obvious. Touches. Smiles. Compliments. And then how hurt and embarrassed I felt when you said you didn't want to do it again, and brushed me off entirely. I felt exposed and vulnerable, like I'd been caught out. We kissed again though. Sitting cross-legged on the sand. Amazing. Sparks. Tingles. But then you stopped again. Abruptly. You stood up and said you couldn't, that it wasn't fair to Ben. I asked why. You said he wouldn't care if it was just us kissing drunkenly like girls do sometimes. But this wasn't that. You said this wasn't fair to him because now you were starting to feel something.

You were starting to "feel something".

Then you got stressed and wanted to go back and I never asked you what you meant. You didn't seem to remember the next day, or maybe you pretended you didn't. So we left it. I had to leave it. But I so desperately wanted to know what you meant. If you meant anything. If you were just drunk and the alcohol was confusing your words. Or if you'd blurted out something you hadn't meant to. If what you were feeling was the same as me. If you've thought about it since then like I have. A lot. If you've wanted to do it again, like I have. A lot. If you could tell how much I liked it.

And since then things have been different. We've been different. There's something between us now that wasn't there before. It's subtle, and I can't quite explain it, but it's there. Making things complicated. Making things mean more. The affectionate touches and the playful flirting aren't just innocent now. The stakes are higher. We're not in Thailand anymore. There's no sand, no ocean. No full moon to blame. Our protective armour - bikinis, bronzed skin, henna tattoos - it's all gone. Now it's just us. And normality. And it all means so much more. There are consequences and judgement and rumours. People have heard. Our friends. They grin and joke and tease and wait for us to tell them what we've been telling ourselves. That it was nothing. It was just fun. And God we were so wasted. Which is of course what we do tell them. And again I have to ignore the pull at my stomach. The catch of my breath. The thumping in my chest which tells me that I'm lying. I know I'm lying. I just pray that they don't know. That you don't know. I search your face for something to tell me that you might be lying too. The way your dark eyes always flicker down for just a second. The way you catch your bottom lip between your teeth. That light, nervous laugh you have. You're a terrible liar. But there's nothing. You're totally cool. And once again, I'm absolutely not.

We don't speak about it. Not directly at least. Anytime it's brought up, we make light of it. Laugh it off or hastily crack a joke. A little too hastily. Every time my heart hammers against my ribs and just like that night on the beach, I feel vulnerable and exposed. I know I'm going to get caught out.

I'm constantly thinking about it. I wonder if you are too. But it's too dangerous to bring up, too risky to initiate something. Because it wouldn't be just a one time thing then, or something justified by being young, carefree and on the other side of the world. It would be more than that. It would mean more than that. We would need new excuses, new explanations. But still I want to do it again. And again. And again.

You break up with him. I have to hide my smile. You make a joke about how you're "going to go off guys completely". I stop breathing. It's exciting again. You seem happier, more you. Things feel normal again, more at ease. Less tense. The touches and smiles are back. And now it all feels bigger. Intense. Different. I realise I now have to make a conscious effort not to cross any lines. Not to come across too this, or too that. Not to give anything away. And still I can't read you.

There are moments. Tiny glimpses of something possibly leading to more. A look or a touch or a comment. I can't tell if you feel them too; they're gone just as quickly as they appear. At the festival. Smiles. Fingers intertwined. Maybe kisses. Definitely flirting. But then our friends find us again and drag us back to the crowd with grins and hugs.

A sleepover at mine. Wine. Movies. Cuddling. Whispered secrets and hushed giggles. Then your friend calls you and you disappear off upstairs.

That party. Truth or dare. Lingering touches. Outside for some air. More kisses. You've had too much vodka. I have to put you to bed.

A sleepover at yours this time. More wine. More cuddling. Heart racing. Your dad comes in and makes an awkward joke about us sharing the same bed. "What if one of you were a lesbian? It wouldn't be appropriate then, would it?" He chuckles. I hold my breath.

That invisible thing between us is getting bigger. It's too much. I want to tell you. I think I'm finally beginning to understand and I want to tell you. But I can't. It's still so big. What should I do?