Well, this is probably the hardest of my confessions, as even though a great deal of time has passed since these events, I still don't understand exactly what when wrong, simply that I did wrong.
Coming out of my first real relationship left me, naturally, distraught. It was a very destructive affair and therefore I clung to the first dependable guy I could find. To me, he was angelic and entirely irresistible. I have, however, forgotten to mention two very key things to this tale; we first started seeing each other before my ex and I had officially split and they were also very good friends. As you can see, life was beginning to resemble a poor soap opera. Slyly we grew closer, and as the split became official, he became the bandage for my broken heart.
Yet a mixture of unspoken reasons we still continued to keep things between us to ourselves. I think the secret made it fun and in all honestly, worthwhile. We had very little in common and lacked the spark that I hoped would ignite at some point. Even physically, we didn't connect particularly well - the way our hands fitted together, the completely clashing kissing styles, the difficulties in the bedroom. Any sensible person would question why we were even together. I certainly did. One thing became crystal clear to me from the routine 'where do you see us' conversation; he felt much more for me than I ever did for him. That, ultimately, is what made me realise that I needed to end things.
After a summer of hidden kisses and late night rendezvous, the opportunity for us to split rose and I took it, leaving his heart, and our group of friends, shattered. Fortunately time healed matters. Well, mostly. Each semester break he would come home and somehow we would end up entwined once more, knowing that we were undone but choosing not to care in exchange for a few moments of hormone-fuelled passion. Passion was certainly the one thing we never lacked.