I don’t even know how I feel, because feelings are complicated, require a lot of thought, and yet become seemingly more complicated the more thought is put into them.
And so I just … feel.
There’s a boy I like — I wrote about him last year, in both this post and this one, albeit briefly in the latter. He is by far my best school friend; there just isn’t any doubt about it. He has been an absolutely incredible friend to me over the just-over-a-year that we’ve properly known each other, and it has (I believe consequently) been the best year of school so far. I’ve been generally happier, and able to laugh more — small things, I suppose, but they mean a lot to me. When the going has been tough, he’s been there, keeping me sane, grounded, and alright.
He made things alright.
And yes, maybe, I like him a bit.
Like, LIKE him.
But I don’t know.
I don’t like making myself vulnerable; I’m just too used to being hurt or pushed away, I guess, and so making myself vulnerable feels equal to standing on a high-speed railway, with an oncoming train in sight. Sure — there’s a chance that it will break, and things will work out well, but there’s an equal chance of that train not stopping, and I’m not sure that that damage could ever be undone. Risks are often worth taking: life, love — they’re all risks, really. But maybe risk-taking just isn’t my game.
IN one way, I want to put it out there. There was a point in my life this year where on an almost-daily basis, I’d want to sit down, write down exactly how I felt about him, and either text it to him, or call him and read it out — I’m shit at spontaneous speaking, I swear. On the other hand, I was just too scared to do so — I probably still am; I can’t be sure, really. I wanted him to know how I felt, in the vague but possible hope that he felt the same, and we’d have a rom-com style ‘thing’ — Year 10 L has gone through some melodramatic phases, trust me.
And yet, as time’s gone on, I’ve stopped wanting to write that text, or make that call. I like where we are; I like being friends, and having him there as someone I can rely on. And what a friend he has been to me this year: I say it to him over and over, and he laughs at me and tells me how daft I’m being, but it’s true — I’ve never had a friend quite like him before. It took me far too long, in all honesty, to stop convincing myself that he was only being ‘friends’ with me because I was blind, pitiful and lonely — believe me, fake friends is a problem encountered by disabled people a lot, and has been something I’ve faced before. But as the year went on, I could just tell — you can’t pretend to care about someone, and if there’s one thing I know for usre, he cares. Spending time with him never feels one-sided or as if I’m desperately floundering for his attention; it’s natural, two-sided, and fun.
But then, how do I feel now?
Honestly, I don’t know — but I’m fine with that. It’s not some lie made up to convince myself that I’m OK, and in control; I don’t need a lie to know that I am truly fine.
Maybe it’s better without a label. Maybe that’s what makes it more real, more relaxed, and more fun. Yes, I really enjoy spending time with him, and it always surprises me just how kind and caring he is towards me. And he probably is the only person you can guarantee I’ll text back straight away. And he probably is one of the only people I know who I see so regularly, and yet doesn’t hate me yet, hasn’t hated me in the past, and still laughs at my pathetic attempts at humour.
And that makes me happy. I’m happy where we are, I’m happy as things are, and that’s OK. Labelling it would make it different, awkward, somehow. I don’t want that. I want what I’ve got; I’m lucky to have it.