The problem with being in love with your best friend is that he tends to disclose all information about his love life to you, and you don’t want to say anything for fear of ruining your friendship. So you settle for stolen glances and infrequent embraces and hope that he’ll make the first move. You don’t think that day will ever come, and so you refuse to tell him the truth - that you’re utterly miserable watching him chase after other guys while you’re left feeling so alone.

The issue with liking his best friend as so much more than a friend is that there’s no way in hell you feel the same way. He knows you’re sick of being on your own, and he wishes on every goddamn star he can find that he might be the one to make you happy again. But he knows that’s not going to happen any time soon, so he tries to distract himself with other guys that he’ll never actually want. And if that makes you jealous in the meantime, then so be it.

You’re drawn together, a moth to a flame, not allowed to touch. Because if you venture too close, you get burned. Maybe someday the metaphor will change, and there will be the brush of hands, and too-tight embraces, and nights curled up on the couch pretending to watch a movie. Until then, he’s a flame, dangerous and irresistible. 

You write a letter that you never intend to send. You seal it in an envelope that says “sparks” and put it in a shoebox filled with old receipts and ticket stubs and playbills. You forget about it, until he’s helping you clean out your old apartment while packing for your new one. He finds the shoebox and, of course, the letter. He opens it, because curiosity sometimes gets the better of us like that.

“I have spent the better part of four years in love with you,” it reads. “Or, at least, four years at the time I’m writing this. I imagine that if this is ever actually read by someone, the number will have increased quite a bit, because I don’t really see myself not being in love with you. It’s stupid and silly at this point, this whole charade. My friends - our friends - want me to just tell you, but I can’t, not anymore. It’s ridiculous, really, but losing your friendship far outweighs whatever good might come from admitting my feelings for you. It’s been too long, I’ve lived like this for so many years that I’ve actually become quite content. Maybe not happy, but it certainly beats the misery that would be my life without you. And, of course, I know that I could lose you anyway. We could fight, or fall apart, or, God forbid, one of us could die. But I think that our friendship is strong enough that we could overcome most anything short of death.

I don’t know quite when I fell in love with you. I imagine it was gradual. I do remember when I realized it, though. It was June 19, four years ago, when we all went to the beach. You’d been begging me to go in the water with you and I kept refusing. Until finally you just stood there and held out your hand and I looked up and just knew. You were it for me. That was it. So I took your hand and never looked back. And I can never resist when you hold out your hand like that anymore. You don’t do it often, maybe because you know I could never say no, but usually I think you just don’t know.

I wanted to tell you, at first. I was dying to tell you. The recognition of my love for you was so sudden and so strong, I could hardly keep it inside me. But I was convinced, at the time, that you liked someone else, so I kept quiet. And pretty soon, telling you became this insurmountable thing. And I just couldn’t do it. I thought that you would say something if you felt the same, because you never seemed shy about asking guys out. But after a while, you never stopped going on about guys I didn’t know, and so I hid my feelings away to save myself from the embarrassment of it. Apparently I didn’t do a very good job because all our friends know. And I don’t think I’ll ever give you this letter, even if, by some miracle, we end up “getting our shit together,” as Kate would say.

The point, though, is that I love you, I’m in love with you, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop loving you.”

You walk in as he’s reading the end of the letter and you feel your world tilt. It’s all over, you’re sure. Even if he says he doesn’t care, his knowing will change everything. You want to say something, defend yourself, lie, anything to keep him from running as you know he will. You’re so dizzy with fear that when he moves to stand in front of you, you can only stare at him blankly. Of all the things you expect him to do - push you aside and leave, or pretend everything is normal, or yell at you for lying - kissing you is the very last thing you think of. And, of course, that’s exactly what he does.