I guess that reminder fueled me and told me to forgive myself, because I didn't know I was going to be struck by lightning that night. At least that was what I told myself on my way to your house.

But then I heard your voice too, like I've heard it for so many years, being as understanding and as forgiving and as clever as you are, reminding me to always be honest with you, "Because that's what best friends do, Barry," you'd always tell me. And you told me that if either one of us ever felt like we couldn't speak our truths, then maybe we weren't the good friends we thought we were.

So I made you my motive instead, your words to me, assuring me that I was just a friend confiding in his best friend, even though I knew I wasn't being honest with you about everything going on in my life at that time. It's something I still have trouble forgiving myself for, even if you've forgiven me.

I still think that was one of the most nerve-wrecking moments I've experienced, despite everything that I've been through ever since, because I knew that whatever happened, nothing was ever going to be the same again.

That's why I had to hug you. I was hugging you knowing that I wasn't brave enough to look you in the eye and say it, but I wanted to take you in my arms because I was afraid I was going to lose you, and if that was the case, I needed to hold you one last time.

I remember replaying what happened over and over again on my silent walk back to my apartment. I realized I wasn't as eloquent as I had always planned. I spoke those three words, which probably comprised the most unoriginal thing I could say to you, but were ultimately the only words that conveyed it best as my offering and my truth. It wasn't as romantic or as grand as I had pictured this moment would be for so long, after all the build-up, imagined scenarios, the almosts, the dreams.

It was just you and me sitting on Joe's couch like always, only it was so different. I was right next to you, but you seemed so far away, because everything I had kept from you, that I was still keeping from you, was between us. It was nothing like I had pictured for the last fifteen years. I felt you tense up, I saw the surprise on your face, and worst of all, I watched the tears in your eyes fall. And I couldn't even comfort you, because I was the reason you were crying. That's when I couldn't take it anymore, couldn't stand to look at you and at what I'd done, so I stood up and left.

The weeks after were hard. We weren't exactly speaking to each other. You were busy packing your belongings. The timing of the move seemed symbolic, like you were moving out of my life for good, and I struggled to reconcile that. I couldn't even revel in the relief of my confession, because I thought my worst fears were finally being realized, that I had completely lost you.

Thank God I was wrong.