“He’ll never know how much I love him because I’m not allowed to say. We probably won’t even be friends anymore in a few months. In the future, he’ll think of me as that strange kid he knew in eighth grade. That is if he remembers me at all. In twenty years I’ll come back home for the funeral of my aunt, and I’ll run into him at the grocery store. He won’t mention his recent divorce, or the six months he spent in the county jail for passing bad checks, or that he’s not allowed to see his daughter. I’ll introduce him to my boyfriend. He’ll act cool, but the moment will be awkward. When my boyfriend and I get back to my parents’ house, I’ll tell him that he just met my first love. He won’t understand what I saw in a lout like that. I won’t be able to explain it, but I’ll remember that I loved him, and that my feelings were and are important. I’ll remember that I wanted more than anything for him to kiss me on that park bench. I’ll know that I would have gladly lived with him in that trailer park. I would have visited him when he was in jail. And I would have defended him when people put him down for drinking too much. But he’ll never know any of that.”
Artist unknown.
Little fictional short story by Gary Cottle.
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