He was tall and handsome, debonair with a slight cleft chin, and I was his best friend. We had been best friends since we were both toddlers and our mothers dressed us up in over-sized overalls with tacky rainbow-colored buttons. Your hair was a curly fro then, and I had a cowlick going on with my bangs that made every Kodak moment an embarrassing one. I think I knew then that we were something special, but you were always playing with your toy trucks while I sat there, pretending to be interested in your boyish hobbies because I adored you. I still do. I guess I always knew I was gay, but never really confronted it the way some people do with horns and whistles. I do know that it has always been you though. While you dated all the girls in school I watched you sadly, from behind lockers as I slid my books into the top shelf day after day. I longed to be the one pressed up against you, the one you carried books for, the one you would softly kiss before class, but it was never me. It was always Shelly, Kasey, Veronica, Alison, Maria, Janie, Elizabeth, Mary and Trisha. Those “perfect” girls that broke your heart too many times while I watched, both morose and bitter. I hate the man law about not punching girls, because seeing you hurt tended to hurt me more. You could move on so quickly like that, as if nothing happened, but the initial heartbreak always had you coming to me, and I would have to comfort you. I liked those short moments where I caught you crying because you would let me hug you and hold you so tight that I could feel your heart beat beneath my hand. Then, you would shrug me off playfully and try to laugh it off, but I saw the pain beneath your eyes and I’d hate every girl you ever dated.

We played video games together, got jacked off of soda and tried to keep our feelings inside like most boys. Late at night though, we’d have heart-to-heart talks, and you really were sensitive beneath that tough skin, and I loved you for it. At night, during sleepovers, I’d look at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling and make a wish that you’d love me one day. Year after year, I made the same wish under the same stars, even when they started peeling off and you re-painted your room. I just hoped that you would open your eyes and see what was right in front of you instead of playing around with girls and acting all manly about it because I know I would be the best boyfriend you ever had and I knew you better than anyone else. I knew just what to say to make you laugh, the way you pretended to be frustrated when really you didn’t want to get into trouble, how you ran your fingers through your hair when you were nervous. All those little details added up into one big picture- the only part that was missing was me. Why can’t you see it too?

It was the morning after Homecoming and we crashed at your house late at night. Someone had spiked the punch and so we hadn’t even bothered to take our tuxes off yet. I slept on the top bunk of your bed, like always, since you were afraid of heights. I thought it was the cutest thing ever, considering you were tall for your age. We had woken up at around the same time- I could tell by the way we kept moving beneath the covers uncomfortably.

“Alex?” you asked from beneath me.

“Y-yes?” I responded, groggily.

“What the fuck happened last night?”

I laughed, trying to recall what exactly had happened. Then, it all came back to me. His lips against mine, my hands through his hair, tumbling over car seats in his truck. I almost gasped at how quickly it had hit me. “What do you mean?” I asked, trying my hardest not to sound suspicious.

“After the dance…I feel like something happened…something important.”

I couldn’t breathe. What should I say? I didn’t even really remember it myself.

“I don’t remember, man. You know, the punch was spiked.”

Fogged windows, breathless moments- why were these flashing scenes taking over my mind now? “Let’s not talk about it,” I said quickly, and the images stopped. How I would have loved to relish in them, but I was certain my mind was playing tricks. For something so amazing to happen and for me to not know of it immediately is just bizarre.

“Oh…okay,” he said. Was he disappointed? Did he remember it too? I wanted to pinch myself.

He dropped me off at my house a little after one. We had shared our favorite pizza together and played video games, but neither of us did well because he was utterly confused and I was too nervous to say anything about last night. I opened the door to my house, ran to my room, and flopped onto my bed, moaning, frustrated into my pillow. Did I want him to remember? Would he hate me if he recalled it? Did I just have too much punch? How I wished the answers would appear from thin air like some magic spell and tell me what to do. If I was in his position, I would want to know. I had so many opportunities to say something earlier, but it never felt right. I picked up my cell phone and dialed his number, only to hang up on the first ring like a coward. What was I doing? How would I even tell him? “Hey, remember when we snogged last night in your truck? I really liked it, how about you?” No. It was pointless. Before I could contemplate the situation any further, my phone rang. I looked at the number. He was calling me back.