Reaching

At the time I told myself it was because we were both young. Despite the fact that I had figured it out for myself years before, I convinced myself that he and I were confused. And didn't know what was what. Every time we saw eachother I could see it in his eyes, the confusion, the self-hatred, not knowing how to express his feelings, fighting against decades of indoctrination against what the two of us had.

It was beautiful, too. What we shared together. Words don't have the capability to describe it. I know many have tried to use words to capture the feelings you experience at that age, when you fall truly in love with someone.

We would see eachother in secret. I tricked myself into thinking that was for both of us, but thinking back it was really just his secret we were hiding.

Afterward, I would pretend to be asleep while listening to his sobs of self loathing from the other room. I hated that. I hated lying in bed listening to that. He would always leave and shut the door, thinking that I wouldn't be able to hear him crying, thinknig that I was sound asleep. I could hear him, though. I knew it was the self hatred that I myself felt at first, the self hatred that I've since come to despise about the young me.

Why was he not able to shut that out and just accept who he was? Why was I so comfortable, and why couldn't he feel the same way? Did he not know that what the two of us shared was spectacular, a once in a lifetime feeling? Why couldn't he come to the same realization that I had?

That was me speaking after the fact, of course. After my months of self examination, of self loathing, of soul searching, and finally self-acceptance. He should have been in the same place that I found myself. That I convinced myself I wasn't in. Because of him.

He never did come to terms with who he was. That's why he left. At least, that's what I tell myself now. Maybe that's just who I wanted him to be. I don't think so, though. I don't think so.