2000

“All right! Retreat’s here!”

The junior high kids ran through the hallways of the church building, racing to see who would get to the van first. The spring church retreat had finally arrived.

Behind the kids running was another young boy. This one moved slowly. It didn’t really seem that he couldn’t keep up, but that he didn’t want to. He was new to the youth group.

One of the running children looked back.

“Eric! Come on, let’s go!”

He stopped, and waited for the last boy to catch up. A look of surprise flashed across the last one’s face.

Someone had waited for him?

2003

“All right! Retreat’s here!”

The junior high kids ran through the hallways of the church building, racing to see who would get to the van first. They were different children, but their enthusiasm and energy was the same.

This time, a group of high school kids followed. They were taller, and thinner, and more awkward. Two walked in front.

“I’m so psyched about this; Jake’s coming again this year!” said one. He was dark-haired, with freckles and blue eyes. He was very handsome, and held himself with as much grace as a fifteen-year-old possibly could.

“I’m pretty excited about Monica,” the other replied. He was almost as tall as the first, though he was blond and had darker skin. He wasn’t as good looking as the first one, and walked a little bit behind him.

“Yeah, Monica’s really cool, too!” the first said.

The second boy’s eyes widened, and a smile broke on his face for the first time.

Later that year

“Eric, can you help me with this algebra? It’s totally owning me.”

The blond one looked at his beseecher. It was the dark-haired boy. He was still handsome.

“Yeah, sure, Preston. What’s the problem?”

The dark-haired boy pointed at the numbers on the page, but the blond only had eyes for his friend. Whenever the dark-haired boy looked up, though, the blond glanced away, anywhere but at the one he had depended on for three years.

For three years, Eric had depended on Preston. Whenever he won a contest, he wasn’t totally happy until Preston had congratulated him. Preston’s opinion meant more than anything else in Eric’s life.

He was teetering over a pit of spikes, and had no idea.

2005

It was the week before contest. The play had been getting better, but there were still flaws. One of the most glaring ones was the sound.

It wasn’t his fault. It was the boom box they were using. And the CD. It really was!

“Eric, I’m sick of you fucking up!” the director bellowed.

They had an interesting theater troupe.

“Well, I’m sick of you yelling!” Eric shouted back.

“Can you both shut the fuck up?” Preston cried. Eric’s mouth snapped shut, and his eyes grew wide. The director continued to rail at the entire cast.

Eric stared at Preston for a good minute. The object of his attention had no idea, being too busy clamping set pieces together.

He yelled at me…

Later that year

“All right! Retreat’s here!”

Once again, the kids flew down the hallway. This time, only two high school students followed them: the same two boys.

That night, at the retreat, the youth minister gave a lesson about confessing when you have sinned against your brother. Eric decided it was time to let Preston know what he felt. He was pretty sure that being in love with your best friend was a sin when you were both guys.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Let’s go outside.”

He listened for ten minutes while Eric bared his soul. He didn’t say anything, or interrupt, or walk away.

“Why have you chosen that life?”

“Chosen?!” Eric cried. “It’s not something you choose, it’s something you are!”

“Well, I’ll pray for you.”

Then, he left.

And never came back.

It’s been two years, and we haven’t spoken since. My heart broke that night, and I swore never to fall in love again. And I haven’t.

Until now.

But this time, I’ve learned from my mistakes. I’m not going to let him know, because having a relationship, no matter how strained by secrecy, is better than seeing him from a distance and not being able to get closer.

It’s better to cry at night because you can never touch him than to cry at night because you tried, and he shook you off like you were an insect.

It’s better to fantasize, knowing that at least he thinks you’re pretty cool, than to fantasize, wishing he’d recognize your existence.

Trust me.