Partner. Protector. Friend. As the days I spent with him increased in number, and somewhat to my dismay, as well as to my satisfaction, enjoyment, he emerged more clearly as all of these things.
He was my partner of almost seven years. Everyday I came down to the office where we worked, away from everyone else, because we were different from everyone else. I sat opposite him, facing him, having to look at him almost every moment of the day, often losing myself in the depths of his eyes, which seemed to be everywhere but on me.
He was my protector. He had saved me from death and from deception. He had saved my life, and he had saved me from not knowing the truth. He had helped me find it; he had helped me find myself. Every time he saved me, and the number slowly but steadily and surely grew, his nonchalance was cutting, leaving me raw, cold.
He was my friend. The first day we had met and he asked me if I was in the right place, I wasn't so sure. Now I couldn't even answer I was so certain that I would say more than I intended. If he couldn't see, he was blind. We could talk for hours and not run out of things to say. We could sit in silence and things were never awkward. He was my friend, the best I've ever had.
I loved him. As much as I didn't want it to be true, as much I wanted it to all be some horrible, yet wonderful nightmare, it wasn't. The feelings were there, as intense as his gaze, burning and coursing through my veins, right to my heart.
I couldn't feel this way. But I did. I was jealous of other women, the way he looked at them, the way he never looked at me like he did them. I was overly protective of him, and I'm sure he could tell. We were partners, and we could never be anything more, and I would die if we were anything less.
I loved him. But I hid it, buried it deep inside the bowels of my pristine and immaculate suit, masking my emotions with uprightness and a dignified aura. Things between us were professional, and I worked very hard to keep them that way. Everyone at work thought we were sleeping together. He knew, I knew, everyone knew. Everyone thought they knew. I had to keep myself in check; I couldn't bear more rumors.
No matter how many times I tried to dismiss my feelings, they returned, more obvious than ever. I tried to smother them, telling myself he would laugh if he knew how I felt. They returned, more determined than ever to get him to notice me, to care about me, to love me. They could not be quelled, and the more I tried, the more I realized I wasn't sure if I wanted them to be.
I know he could never love me back. It was unseemly, forbidden, almost as unbecoming as me finding myself attracted to him. If it was impossible for me to love him and I did, couldn't it be possible for him to love me too? Hope. Pathetic, desperate hope was all I had of him.
He couldn't love me, and I shouldn't love him. But I did, there was no way to deny it, and as hard as I tried I couldn't extract the life from my love, hoping to quench the flame. I shouldn't love him. But I did. I did.