ask me if i care
When I went back home, I could tell my mum wanted to talk to me about boys. I didn’t want to hear about it. What did she have to show for her advice, a failed marriage? “I don’t believe in platonic relationships,” she told me, over an apple pie and an M&M McFlurry at the McDonalds at the end of our street. It was 11pm. My best friend was a boy I kind of liked who would sometimes play with my hair and pat my head and other times torment me by leaving me on delivered for a whole day. Obviously I thought she was wrong.
I worried that things would change after we came back from the break, but I was misguided. Things didn’t change, at least not in the negative way that I was concerned about. He was my best friend, of course I loved him, to some degree at least. Sometimes, for brief moments, I would feel his arm around me, or his leg pressed up against mine, or the warm firm grip of his hand, before one of us – usually him – repositioned ourselves. It was far easier to believe that it was a coincidence. The moments when we looked into each other's eyes, our heads bowed together, seemed less so, but I didn’t feel compelled to define this indeterminate relationship that we had.
He said that if we were characters in a book we would be the same character. We’re basically a singular entity, he said.