“I’m so tired,” I told you.
I loved it when instead of asking me Why?, you asked me What is it? Just tell me.
I never really understood or felt the difference, but last night it was different. What you said felt more reassuring than a mere Why? — which can sound haughty and indifferent, defensive and distant. What is it? Just tell me assured me that you were there for me. That you were prepared to listen and really listen, to receive whatever I was going to share. Also, that you had prepared yourself for another story about another guy that broke my heart. About someone like you, or almost like you.
“Is it related to those guys?” you asked. And then, added like a passing thought that popped up unwanted, that you tried to avoid but eventually decided to face: “Or is it me?”
With those questions, you held out your arms for me. We had discussed us many times, but never like this. Never this cautious. Never this gently. You allowed me to visit those scars carefully, almost with a caress. And it was this soft approach that finally brought tears to my eyes because it felt so much like home and told me the pain was healed.
It felt like someone was finally here — someone who would never leave, would never judge, would never try to be someone else, and would never try to ask me to be someone other than myself. It felt like I could stop running — from you, from us, from myself — and stop racing with life because, with you, I am enough. We are enough, as we are.
When the tears stopped falling, I realized we were truly best friends, with our past embraced and let go, written and erased, and without the romance secretly harbored and repressed, felt and denied.
We were freed of so many and given so much more.