I remember when you’d take me in, as if I were a lost kitten stranded in a storm. We were really good friends; we may have liked each other at one point, but the train left the station and we were never able to become more than friends. I thought it was better this way, and you? You tried to be as great a friend as you possibly could be, to me, especially when I had gone through some rough patches with an old lover. You let me sleep in your bed, and being the gentleman you are, you slept on the floor, making sure I was warm and comfortable. I remember how the bed was soft, and how small I felt underneath its sheets. I remember thinking, “How fortunate I am to have the friend I have; how lucky I am that he is such a wonderful person.” Whether or not your intentions were more, I did not care; I loved what we were.
Do we let these memories go in vain, then, when friendship doesn’t work out the way we wanted it to, when we must take our separate paths at the fork of the road? I had hoped I wouldn’t.
Yesterday, I was surrounded by good friends, chattering, laughing and smiling. I laid down on their couch, exhausted from laughter, and unexpectedly, those memories came flooding in— your bed, your warmth, your friendship—and I became sad for what had become lost.