Though I’m always quick to label Her as my best friend, my closest ally, it seems hypocritical of me to put this experience into words. I trust Her with my secrets, with my emotions, with my life, and yet as I seem to grow more desperate to be with Her, I can’t help but find myself seemingly hesitate, a hairs-breadth from truly connecting with Her, and withdraw back into the safety of my both literal and figurative blanket. A cocoon I can wrap myself in – an embrace of my own making – that helps dry tears and ward off my own instigated guilt in equal measure.

I often talk to Her, sharing small thoughts and one-off jokes that will make Her smile. It has always been myself that would reach out first - though She has explained to me before that Her inability to reciprocate has to do with Herself more than our relationship, so I rarely take offense at this mannerism of Hers. My point being; I am the one to extend an invitation to see each other, to smile at each other, to relish in simply touching each other.

I had not done so in a while.

The motivation to see Her recently had come from an unexpected source – my father. My old man has never been one to deeply invest himself in my hobbies or interests. Honestly, I consider us to be more like acquaintances than relatives, what with the helpless, uncomfortable expression he wears whenever I try to engage him in conversation. But that is a topic for another story. My father was the one to propose meeting with Her, to reaching out and finding Her companionship like I hadn’t in a long time.

It was strange, honestly. Strange in that when proposed with the opportunity, I was reluctant to take it. I surprised myself with this reaction. Did I not want to see Her? No, that wasn’t quite right. I had not talked to my friend in a while, had not shared the same space and breathed the same air in months. I wanted to see Her… and yet I was hesitant. All I know is that when faced with the choice to see Her, I was scared. Apprehensive, despite knowing that we have openly stared into each other’s souls and that I have never had any reason to fear Her judgement.

So I messaged Her, arranged a time and date - a night where we could be together just like old times. She had trouble fitting me in – I had a habit of calling Her on short notice, and She had plans. But that was normal, and it wasn’t with frustration, but with excitement that I regarded our conversations during this time.

The day finally came, and as I do with most things, I meticulously packed any materials I could possibly need, checked and rechecked my internal list of tasks to complete, and ended up anxiously pacing my room. I was like this for quite a while before suddenly, having reached the internal conclusion that it was time to leave, I suddenly broke from my trance, hefted my large bag to my shoulder, and left.

Spending time with Her is always unlike anything I have experienced elsewhere. Being with Her is like coming home. Seeing Her that day was a relief from what felt like an eternity of stress and pessimism. With Her, my life has meaning. And it was lying next to Her on the couch, drunk on the comfort She provides, that I realized how restless I truly was.

We hadn’t done anything we normally wouldn’t, and our meeting was exactly as we both had expected. Yet I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy, and I do not know why.

It was sitting next to Her in the companionable silence and comfort we normally fell back on that I understood that internally, I did not want to be there with Her. I was puzzled – am puzzled – about what could have brought this on, but it was through this understanding that I slowly grew more and more upset. Yet I would not express it. I continued to share Her company, and She with me. I still enjoyed the support and companionship we were providing each other, and yet I continuously grew more uncomfortable.

It was when hours later She asked if I would be staying the night that I was hit with the revelation that it was my choice to stay – it was up to myself and myself alone to continue my internal conflict. Would I stay simply because I wanted to please Her?

I hesitated.

I spent the next hour debating how I should continue. Did I want to stay, risking my own continuously growing discomfort? Or would I leave and suffer the self-imposed guilt of having left Her?

In the end, I chose to leave. Voicing this decision and our subsequent farewells left the atmosphere heavy with words unsaid. I do not know what we tried to convey to each other with our expressions and farewell touches that we could not say outright, yet I can’t help but feel I made the wrong choice that day.

Walking away from her house in the cold dark night, I felt that I needed to justify my decision to myself, and by extent, others. I messaged my father, telling him of my choice to leave, and his indifference only further spurred my anxiousness.

I journeyed home, and in the darkness as I unlocked my door I felt the relief of my lonesomeness wash over me. It was colder without her next to me, but I was once again more relieved than I was only hours before. I wrapped myself in my blanket – a shield against the judgement and misunderstanding she would direct at me.

And I was safe.