The worst part is, I think I could have loved him, might have loved him. Or, at least loved him as much as any sixteen-year-old girl could. I just can't help but think of how perfect everything would've been if he'd been straight. Yeah, yeah, I know it probably wouldn't have been "perfect". Well, not to that extent. Still, I pretty much had our life together mapped out. Pathetic right?
But here goes...
We would live in a little house, just outside of town, where we would raise our three beautiful children. We'd argue over names the first time I got pregnant, during "our" first pregnancy test. Well, technically, it would be be my first test, but he'd be there in the bathroom with me, so, I guess you could say it was "ours". But, in the end, we'd decide to compromise.
We'd both be published authors, with him leaning more towards the poetic side of things, and with me more inclined to prose. It would all be wonderful. We'd understand when the other needed their Writing Time, their creative space.
Sigh. What a beautiful, beautiful dream. But that's all it is. Just a dream. 'Cause it's never gonna happen. He's gay. I might as well face it. He's never going to like me the way I like him. It'll never happen. No matter how many times I cry, no matter how many times I wish that things were different...that he was different, or that I was different. He'll never love me that way. Respect me? Yes. Like me? Maybe. Love me? Never.