Late at night, you would pick me up at my apartment to take me to yours. We were both tired from work, but too hungry for each other to care. Some of the car rides were silent, and others were filled with complaints about our hectic days, but we wouldn’t judge each other for complaining too much. We would listen. We would understand each other.
During those car rides, we were normal. We weren’t just two people who fucked from night into morning on the only weeknights that we were free, once a week, every week.
Those car rides made me feel like we could be more than that.
You tried to cuddle with me after every sweaty session our bodies spent together. I didn’t let you hold me at first. Cuddling was for couples and we were just fuck buddies. But you were persistent about wrapping your arms around me. It took three months for me to start craving those cuddles. Being alone in my own bed without them made me feel empty — it made it hard to fall asleep.
And then there were the meals. The dinner before the movies. The weekend breakfasts when we both had the next day off. We liked to eat quesadillas together and we would share three, because that was the perfect amount. Arizona tea was a staple; I would drink green and you would drink mango. I never got comfortable enough to eat a full meal around you, but that was okay — because you would happily finish both of ours. I found it cute.
So we ate, fucked, and cuddled for almost a year. Was I wrong for thinking that we were more than just friends?
Was I wrong for being the one who you came to for comfort when you were grieving?
Was I wrong for letting you hold me on your rooftop on a hot summer night when I was too scared to be alone?
Was I was wrong for thinking you meant it when you said that I made you happy, and you weren’t trying to play or hurt me?
But you didn’t want to answer to those questions. You didn’t want the responsibility of having to care about someone else’s feelings. You didn’t want to feel the guilt of breaking someone’s heart if you fucked up. Because you felt that we were “too young to be telling each other what to do.”
But that didn’t keep me from falling for you. It didn’t keep me from being hurt or feeling played. And it didn’t keep my heart from breaking.
I was wrong for pretending those strands of black hair in your bed were mine.
I was wrong for pretending it didn’t matter when you let go of me to answer someone else’s text at 2AM, and I had just told you how I felt about you.
Maybe I was wrong for thinking that you actually cared — that I was worth more to you than what was between my legs.
I practically scheduled my whole life around you. I requested Saturdays off in hope that it would allow more free time to see you. I went to your place at 12AM just to leave at 5AM because it was the only time you could see me with your crazy work schedule. I didn’t even complain when I rushed from my birthday dinner to your house and you couldn’t even say “happy birthday,” to me.
I really am stupid. But I’m seeing it for what it was now.
I was your sometimes. You were my always.