They spoke to the same people, had the same friends, the same conversations. Sometimes they had their own conversations, just for them, between them, secret, things said to learn more about each other, about their history, their lives, their present. He was fascinated by her, truly, and he lapped up every little piece of information he received. She inspired him in ways he never thought possible; he became so much more creative than he had ever known that he could be. They talked publicly about things silly and strange, behaving like another version of themselves.
Their friendship he treasured dearly, and he felt nothing strange about it whatsoever, enjoying as it was their communication. He understood that there were boundaries: distance, time known, money etc, and yet this didn’t stop his stupid heart from trying to convince his head that feeling more than friendship for someone whom he did not yet know well enough was a good idea.
He struggled with his dilemma, truly trying hard to not think the way he was being made to feel by his overactive and overly romantic nature. He even knew that in twelve months he would look back on this sequence of events and feel as embarrassed as he did when he wrote it. Nothing has run away from him yet, however he knows full well what he is capable of, and the warning signs are there to see, there to be heeded.
All of this is said and all of this explained, yet he just wishes for a moment, a few moments every day and more of them with each passing day, that she would notice him for the same reasons that he noticed her.
If only she looked at him the way that he was looking at her.
© Kris Blackburn 06/09/2015