There was this boy I knew a long time ago who cried the first time he told me that he loved me.
He told me when we’d started, when I took him away from a girl who was crazy about him and who he liked enough, that the reason he wanted to stay with her was that when he thought about the future with me, all he saw was black. We wouldn’t have a happy ending, he’d told me.
But I brushed off his concerns, and took him away from that girl who liked him so much and who he liked a little because when I saw them together, I knew he was really mine.
He loved me like no one ever had or has since.
I left him like I do, but it hurt me to do it. I left him when things were still good, before it turned black. Before the arguments and the stony silences, the bargaining and the compromises. When things were still perfect.
But I’d missed him. I called him and told him so, and we both cried. Because it wasn’t meant to be. We wouldn’t work. We were better as friends.
But there was still that pull.
We’d talked for years afterwards. He’d tell me his new girlfriend would pout for days after she’d hear him talking with me on the phone. He sounded happy, she’d tell him. Happier than when they were together.
And even though we were both with other people, I knew he was still mine.
He lives in San Francisco now where he’s a lawyer. He’s married to a girl he met in Germany, and they have a little boy. We lost touch years ago, but I still think about him from time-to-time. And I do believe we had a happy ending.
It just wasn’t together.