I think it's safe to tell her how I feel. I know she will interpret my words differently.
So I tell her, "I've become very fond of you." She tells me she has become very fond of me.
She is my best friend. Nothing more. I made sure of that.
Part of me hopes she would realize that is not what I mean.
I say, "It is too bad you are leaving."
She seems like she had forgotten. Finally she says, "It makes me glad that you don't feel the same way about me. If you did, things would be a whole lot more difficult."
So I decide not to tell her.
She notices that I am somewhat distressed and asks if I am offended.
"No. It just... stinks."
"Yeah, it does. What's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You seem off or something."
I say that I am. Maybe I will tell her.
But I tell her that I had just been thinking about "things."
-
It's almost time for her to go. She pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket and tells me that it's there for me. We say our goodbyes. I read the paper. It's e.e. cummings.
You are tired,
(I think)
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we'll leave it far and far away--
(Only you and I, understand!)
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart--
Open to me!
For I will show you the places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.