Hey, don’t worry. I’m fine.
I know everyone says that, and I know they never mean it. Half the time, I don’t mean it, either.
But really, I am. Fine, that is.
I’m fine because I’ve decided that it’s just not worth it. The crying, the pursed lips, the games, the lies, everything. It’s not worth it.
I love you. You know I do. I love you because you’re my friend, because you listen to me bitch when I’m angry and hug me when I’m sad and make me laugh and do stupid shit with me. I love you because you know exactly what to say and you’re smooth as fuck and you know it, I love you because you’re incredibly inappropriate and have no sense of rules or lines or when to quit. I love you because you do what you want and even though that gets you into trouble sometimes, mostly it just makes you happy. And I love it when you’re happy.
But all of that doesn’t mean anything if I can’t be satisfied with what we are. Which is not a “we.” And we’re young and full of hormones and sometimes we get carried away; it’s happened times before and most likely will happen many times ahead, but I can’t let that get in the way of my favorite part of everything: being friends.
I can’t be mad when you get another girlfriend and still want to fuck around with me, I can’t get jealous or hurt or wish that it was somehow different. Because I want to live on with you, in a cul-de-sac with neighboring houses and block parties that put all others to shame. I want us to buy dumb toys from the dollar store and swordfight in 90 degree weather, I want us to swim in lakes and tan on the beach and barbeque and play. I want you to be in my life, without confusion, without complication, without worrying about how you see us or how you think of me. I want to love you without having to hate you as well.
So I just thought you should know that.
I’m fine. Or I will be, anyway.
And I’m not going anywhere anytime soon.