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I knew. I knew the minute Sebastian and Abigail walked in that something had changed. I smiled at them and asked questions.
But I wanted to look at the one sitting behind me, the one who went silent as soon as those two walked in together. It was the moment I knew the peace we had before was over. Sebastian, who they had always liked more than me, was with Abigail now. Somehow, despite my own feelings, it was painful… because I couldn’t stand to think of them in pain.
I wanted to take their hand and walk them out — prevent them from having to even see Sebastian’s face right then. But I didn’t. I didn’t know how to approach it. I didn’t want to bring attention to it. I just kept seeing the distant, far-off sadness that hid behind their empty expression and it hurt more and more. The night was agonising. And I couldn’t do anything.
They had always wanted Sebastian, after all. What comfort could I bring?
So even though they left, I sat where they did on the couch. It should have been warmer from them just being there, and I wasn’t cold because I gave them my sweater. It was because they were gone and I hadn’t done anything to help them.
And now, standing on their cabin steps, hearing them cry to themselves, I feel even guiltier. I love them. And I’m here, listening to them cry because they love my best friend. They don't want me right now. They don’t want me to be the one who comes chasing after them. Is it selfish that I’m here?
But I can’t stand them being in pain. Even if it is selfish. So I come in and I walk over to where they’re curled up in bed and I lay with them. I hold them, I kiss their forehead, I shush and tell them it’s okay to cry. I let them stain my cold t-shirt with tears and hold me like they need. I rub their back, covered with my sweater. I just don’t leave — not even when they’ve fallen asleep and their grip on me has relaxed. I still stay. They give me the sweater back in the morning. I want to tell them “keep it” but I don’t.
I come back every night, or most nights, for a while. On the nights that I don’t, I offer anyway. A simple text message letting them know I’m here if they need me. When they do, they reply that I can come over. “Can”... with the option left to me. I always go. When they don’t reply, I spend all night worrying and missing them, even in my sleep.
They don’t really cry anymore, just want my body in their bed with them. Sometimes we don’t even touch; we just lay there, talk, sleep. Sometimes I make them laugh. And sometimes it feels like, at least between us, things are normal. I feel like I’m making things better.
They don’t come for the first couple of saloon nights and I don’t blame them. I let Abigail and Sebastian play pool and I sit on the couch. I message them and I wait and wait until they reply. Then I go. Those nights, I think, are more for me than them. They know I worry.
Then one night, they come, and they’re good at acting like nothing’s changed. Like the two of us sitting on the couch together, watching the other two’s pool match, is just the way it’s always been. I occupy them, we play arcade games or on my portable systems and we laugh and we walk home together. Their home.
That night, though, in bed, we don’t talk or touch or sleep. Then they kiss me. And the way they look at me, tears already welling up in their eyes, I know it’s not for me. But I still let them kiss me. I hope that I can just keep kissing those lips and that maybe, one day, it really will be for me. They’ll be wearing my sweater and be happy that it doesn’t smell like the forest, but instead, like my cologne and hair gel and however else I smell to them (I just hope it’s nice and comforting and familiar).
From there, we kiss most nights. They always tell me sorry when they kiss me and I never say anything because I already know they are. But I’m not.
One morning, on my way out, I leave my sweater for them to keep.