Space

I needed to be given space—that's what I was told.

I wasn't told at the time, of course. It was three years later, after the wonderings-why and the non-existent (but perfectly real) rejection were given their time to set in.

I'd changed back then, I was told. Something about the way I spoke; the way I moved.

No offense was taken. I'd done nothing "wrong," precisely—except feel.

I looked deep inside my heart and found her there. It was then that I made the mistake of not hiding. Of believing—trusting?—that of all people, she would understand.

I wasn't so bold or so blind to think we could be anything more than friends, for the moment at least. 

But I knew how I felt regardless, and I decided it was better to be honest than to pull my heart back under my sleeve. After all, if anyone would be the exception to the rule I'd learned well before, it would be her. I was wrong. Maybe in that way, it's my fault.

But no—that can't be true. She was the exception. She'd said so herself. As I fell down more than once, chasing mirages of love that barely existed, she told me she was different. That if circumstances had allowed, she'd be the one to break the cycle. "I would have danced with you," she said in one way or another, more than once. And it wasn't only words. I recognized that look she gave me—that entranced adoration. Not the thoughtless affection of a grade-school crush, but the eyes that impart You Are Special To Me. I'm not special to her anymore—not in that way, in any case. But she still cares for me, albeit so distantly it's only a foggy echo across the bay.

Sometimes I wish she hated me instead.

"Space." "Distance." Words that imply a gentle way of letting me down easy.

Space. Distance. A gentle, unspoken way of saying "I'd rather not have you in my life."

Over and over I've thought: if only she'd been a shade more cruel, what she did would have been infinitely less cruel.

I didn't break any rules; I didn't overstep my bounds. I didn't do anything other than think she was special. And for that, I was punished with losing my best friend. I wasn't given a chance to defend myself—wasn't even told that I was on trial—and as my sentence, I have to live with the knowledge that the unspoken thoughts of my heart are the reason I lost the person who mattered to me the most.

I am not allowed to feel. I can make every right choice, never utter a word out of turn, but I can't lie well enough to hide how I feel. And for that reason, I'm eternally a criminal.

But what genuinely terrifies me: She knew me better than almost anyone. She told me she was different. She had feelings for me before, even if she won't admit it now. To her, today, I'm a dusty book sitting quietly on a shelf, unread for years. Filled with precious memories of years past, but ultimately useless in the face of newer alternatives. With others before, I felt the pain of rejection and moved on. But if this is how the supposed-exception—my former-closest friend—regards me now, what chance do I have with anyone else? If who I am and how I feel are the reasons I'm alone, how will I ever be anything else?

The immediate answer I find: I have to hide. I have to pretend that nothing and no one matters to me as much as they do. I have to pretend that I'm not a damaged child desperate for someone to claim me as theirs. But I know that I can't hide, and I can't lie. And honestly, I never want to. But that means that I'm at the mercy of others, and I don't feel safe trusting anyone anymore.