The Fight is Over. Almost.

Each time we fight, I always drift to the verge of breaking up with my best friend. But there is nothing to break in the first place. I have always loved him–enough to become my boyfriend, but he always pointed out the fact that we are just best friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Because of that, I used to think of us as two people who were  simply brought together by mutual need. He needed a company, while I needed a roof over my head.

We were happy that way. We share a bed, but we never had any luck making love. We have our meals together, but I always finish first. Sometimes, we even shampoo and soap each other but that’s about it. He is fond of massaging me, especially when he knows that I am mad or stressed, but he never dared take it further. We always go out together, coffee, shopping, dine out, but he never called it a date. Eventually, I got tired of being the only one. I know that he loves me, too, but he is not loving me enough. Or am I just asking too much?

I always ask myself: Why is he always afraid of crossing the line? Am I not good enough? Am I not desirable? Do I even turn him on? I get to answer this questions only when in the arms of other guys during my detours. Promising guys. But I always made it clear with them that I couldn’t stay for long. Some drifted away. Some were kind enough to stay as friends. I always have the option to leave him because someone is always out there waiting for me. But I never did.

I waited. For almost two years. I have waited for him to mature and know how to treat me, but he seems already comfortable having me around. Our friendship has become passive. The only time we get to talk seriously is when we fight. But it’s not a good thing at all. It’s either I stray into another detour or lose my current job. And I’m tired of it. Depression is my worst enemy. I don’t want my new career turned into another self destruction caused by this sadness I have been fostering since the day I loved him.


8 responses to “The Fight is Over. Almost.

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