The writer of this guest post would like to remain anonymous.
I was in 8th grade when I first met her. To my untrained eyes, she was completely perfect. From her shining eyes and dimples to the sound of her laugh. I knew that I couldn’t approach her, but I worshipped from afar. We became friends, we spent time together. We liked the same music, we enjoyed the same movies. Everything she talked about, I wanted to know about. She liked the Rocky Horror Picture Show, but my parents wouldn’t let me go. I videotaped it from a late night movie showing on television and watched it, trying to figure out why anyone would enjoy it, but I couldn’t be a Rocky “virgin” in front of her.
Whenever I saw her, my heart fluttered, but to her, I was always just a friend. I was jealous when she spent time with other friends. I was jealous of any moment she wasn’t with me. She sat next to me in chemistry, behind me in history. For so long, she was so close, yet completely untouchable. I could never get closer. I never tried. She never offered.
I wasn’t even completely sure of my feelings at first, but the horror of the possibility of losing her friendship kept me from ever admitting them to her. I barely admitted them to myself.
Years have passed. We are still friends. We live far apart and haven’t seen each other in years. She is married with three children. I am too.
I cover my hair, wear skirts; I love my husband, and have no regrets about my marriage, but every time I see her picture, my heart skips a beat.
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