I stood fully naked in front of the bathroom mirror, scrutinising every millimetre of my pale flesh. Seeking out every imperfection, every mark on my otherwise alabaster skin and as usual, finding nothing more than a few freckles running up my legs. I don’t know why I’m here again, back in this exact same place playing the same old game. Satisfied with the image staring back at me from the mirror, auto-pilot takes over.

Matching red underwear

Indigo blue flared jeans

Plain black vest

Purple Doc Martens

No jewellery

No make-up

As I pull the brush through my loose blonde hair, I realise that I could be getting ready to meet my boyfriend for all of the madness I’m going through. The panics of what to wear, the worry of how to do my hair, it took me half an hour to decide whether to wear make-up or not. In actual fact, this parade of vanity is all for my best friend. He has just split up with yet another girlfriend and I was the first person he called, as always. This is how we work, this is what we do and I hate myself for letting it get this far.

‘Finch’ are screaming his theme song from the jukebox, advertising the fact that he’s already here. I wouldn’t be surprised if the pub had heard that song on repeat since he arrived. He’s sat at our usual table, tucked away at the back of the pub, next to the window yet still in the dark. My stomach flipped slightly at the sight of him, it always did these days, he looked exactly the same as he always does. Tousled dark hair, a baggy t-shirt drowning his willowy frame and baggy skater trousers advertising his hobby without apology. I smiled to myself and ordered two bottles of beer, carrying them with me to our tables and sitting opposite him, handing over one of the bottles. He looked across at me, a sadness in his eyes that had become all too familiar; he reached out across the table and took my hand, squeezing it gently. I took a swift drink from my beer and waited for him to start, wondering if I should’ve tied my hair up, or if I should’ve worn even a little make-up.

“She told me she never loved me,” he said finally, staring into the neck of the bottle. I sighed softly, and so we begin. “She just kicked me out of the flat, didn’t even listen to anything I had to say,” He was physically agitated by this, tearing at the paper around the bottle and looking around the room as he spoke. “Fucking bitch threw all my stuff out onto the road, she didn’t even tell me why,”

“Maybe she didn’t have a reason,” I suggested. “There’s no point trying to talk to her if she’s made her mind up. Why would you want to if she can tell you she never loved you? What is she playing at saying that?”

“I really thought she was the one,” he sighed, his voice literally dripping with self-pity. He thinks every girlfriend is the one, he is completely incapable of being alone, he cannot function without a girlfriend at his side. He feels hollow and alone without somebody in his life; his numerous friends don’t count of course. He needs someone to love him and tell him so every minute of the day. That is why I am here, because I am stupid enough to think that I could be enough.

“I know you did but there’re so many girls out there, you’ll find someone else who’s actually worth your time and effort,” I said, the speech I have used too many times, it’s imprinted on my tongue, ready to churn out at a moment’s notice. “She’s just a bitch, you deserve someone who is always going to be there for you,” Like me. “Someone who loves you unconditionally,” Like me. “Someone who wants you for who you are, not how they can change you,” Like me. I hate this.

“You are so right. You are always right, how do you do that?” he grinned, that smile he uses to deliberately melt my heart. I smile back, even laugh a little. I wish I had stayed at home, I wish I had made up some excuse to not be here with him. Here alone, staring into the deep ice-blue pools of his eyes, aching for him to tell me he sees me. He really sees me. He reaches across and takes my hand again, squeezing it gently in his. Please don’t say it; please don’t break my heart again. “I love you,”

There you go. Thanks a bunch.

“I love you too,” I smile, hating myself for allowing the words to come out of my mouth. I am at a complete loss as to why I let myself get hurt every time I see him. He calls, I come running and inevitably get trampled in the rush. We become this singular entity, locked together in conversation littered liberally with hugs and kisses and meaningless ‘I love you’s. I wish just one of them could hold an ounce of meaning. Is that too much to ask? Just an ounce. I am an idiot.

This is my lot in life as far as men are concerned. I have been in love with my best friend for the last ten years but I have only known for the last three or so… not that long really. I wish I could just tell him how I feel but I know he would never reciprocate my feelings so what is the point? I should just keep my mouth shut and get on with it. He doesn’t see me as a sexual object, I’m his best friend. Occasionally, we do get fall-down drunk and end up in a passionate clinch in the back of a taxi home but it never develops into anything else. I’m the girl he calls when he splits up with his girlfriend because he knows I’ll fill the gap; I’ll tell him I love him, I’ll hug him and kiss him and make him feel wanted and then the next ‘one’ will come along and I’m relegated to the reserves bench once again.

Why do I do it to myself? Why? I guess it’s because I am a glutton for punishment. Some sick and twisted part of me enjoys being his emotional scratching post and he goes through girlfriends so quickly that I feel like I have got a boyfriend half the time. We’re basically a surrogate for each other aside from the fact that we never have sex but still bicker like an old married couple. God, I am so pathetic. I wish I could just say no to him, wish I could just tell him the truth but I couldn’t stand the world to come crashing down around my ears. The sound would deafen me.

And so it remains, I will forever have his lips on mine, his arms around my waist and his friendship, forever his friendship but I will never, ever own his heart. He doesn’t give that away. He reserves that for the real girlfriends and I’m just the in-between girl.