The entry below (A History Lesson) was written in the winter of 2003 when I briefly wrote a dating column for a university website. Upon reading the piece, Boy immediately recognized himself and apologized for the unknown pain he had caused me over those three years. Despite it all, he was one of the closest people in my life and we continued our disfunctional relationship.
Several months later, as I was about to embark upon a move to London in an attempt to save another unhealthy relationship (one that at least was grounded on love and not merely infatuation), Boy and I sat silently on an Ann Arbor step sharing a cigarette. We had stopped being physically intimate the month prior and had finally reached a place where we were happily just friends.
"You know I love you, right?" he asked me. His intense eyes locked with mine. I nodded, knowing full well what he meant. He did love me, not in the way I had at one time wanted him to, but in his own way, the way one loves their best friend. Suddenly, it made sense why I had needed to maintain this paralyzing relationship for so long. Because in the end I got what I had wanted all along. He loved me and thats all that really mattered.
Currently feeling: relieved
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