I don’t think you’re ever going to love me. I don’t think I’m going to love you. I believe we’ll care and like and like-like. We’ll flirt and turn each other into adolescent fantasies. We might even cross over into What If territory.
But love? I just don’t think it’s on the menu.
Because if it was, it would have happened. We wouldn’t need to orchestrate it. We wouldn’t need to figure out our zip codes and trips in town so precisely. We wouldn’t need the where and the why. It would be assumed. We wouldn’t need to question if the other actually wanted to continue the conversation or if the texting was just formality.
If we were ever going to fall in love, this back and forth wouldn’t feel so temporary.
Truthfully, I still find you fascinating. I’m interested in your day, in your mood, in your overall goals. I try not to be. You’re just a guy. You’re just a guy…I want to talk to. I want to know about and how you feel and if you’re okay.
But love isn’t something born out of convenience. Love is undeniable. Love is flowing and unstoppable and, damn, I wish I could claim it for us.
I can’t. We’re not in love. I don’t think we ever will be.
Doesn’t mean you aren’t special or fantastic. Doesn’t mean you aren’t someone I think of at a frequency that bugs me.
But if we were going to fall in love, it would have happened by now. It would have bloomed.
So let’s say we’re just destined to be flirty friends. Let’s say we hook up a few times and still find one another a good source for advice or entertainment or conversation. Is that so bad? Does that make us failures?
Or does that just make us realistic?
Because, realistically, you’re not the guy I end up with. But truthfully? You’re the guy I want around for a really, really long time.