It seemed like a dream when it happened. I was spending the night at his apartment. His apartment. It was just supposed to be something low key, relaxed. We ate, watched a movie, discussed us and everything, and read the tarot cards and runes. We talked about his mom and her art. We watched a lot of comedy central.

He's 6 years older than me, and to most I'm little more than a child. A child that has seen and experienced too much, but a child all the same. I think I'm entitled to an emotional maturity birth certificate. "Born November 12th 1987."

Did I mention I'm seventeen?

A magical number, a prime number, a number in all sorts of holy images and relics. Becaues Math is the equivilent of Magic centuries ago. But for me it's an obstacle to overcome. Because in the culture I live in, when someone of his age and someone of my age are romantically engaged, he is immediately labeled as a pedophile. And then the questions.

"Why can't he find someone his own age?" "Isn't he a little too old for you?"

Nevermind the fact that once I open my mouth and start talking, everyone forgets about how I look and ask me if I want to go out for drinks, to talk and discuss things someone my age shouldn't be interested in. Nevermind I've had to show people my liscense to prove that I'm in fact born in 1990. Nevermind the fact that I've been hailed by every adult that cared to talk to me for my intelligence and insight. Nevermind the fact that when he and I met, we were just friends. He's the first person I've ever met who is equally a fount of useless information as I. When we start talking, people feel displaced. Because they don't know or care about our words.

We bonded over words and pain.

That night shouldn't of happened. Because of everyone in the goddamn world, we decided to be just friends. We are supposed to be just friends. But how can we forget what happened?

We weren't drunk. We weren't high. But we were tired.

He let me have his bed, and he was supposed to sleep in the living room, on the couch. But the problem with that is that the floor has this inherent factor of being uncomfortable. He had work at 9 in the morning. I get why he came into the bed at 3 AM. I was asleep, and I vaguely remember him telling me to move over. And as always, what happened next was my fault.

You see, I'm the idiot who encouraged this situation to get to this point. No one believes me, but I persued him. And now I'm kicking myself for what is happening to us, between us.

I rolled over and cuddled up to him. Half asleep and Half aware what was going on, I swore I was dreaming. I thought we were clouds and dust, like Chronos and Gaea. Images of Mercury and the Moon against a purple haze backdrop floated in my head, and when he held me back, a repeating track of "Never Let Go" played through my head, underlined with the intensity of my feelings for him.

Imagine my joy and dismay when I fully woke up to his hand in my hair and his other one holding my hand on his chest. I still cannot believe it happened. It shouldn't of happened.

We were up all night, holding each other, sometimes interrupted by stunted conversation.

"If you apologize for this in the morning, I'm going to beat you up."

"Don't worry Mel, I won't."

I hate myself for it. I hate that I got this started by encouraging his feelings for me he was more than happy to squelch. And now we're stuck. We can't move forward, because forward means trouble, and I'd like to think that neither of us want to move backwards.

And the worst part is I'm letting him decide. I'm not one to let someone hold so much over me. Even when I was head over heels for Kyle, I was in control.

Of course, that unwavering control is what killed us, and sent me into a nice little death spiral I pulled out of not even a 6 months ago. Giving up that control, perhaps things will turn out differently.

Except the only rational ending is that we stop, right now, and leave each other until the feelings disapear, until we find someone else.

I've never had a fondness for the rational, and now I've grown a complete distaste for it.

"Mel, you're comfortable."

"Comfortable or comforting?"

"Comfortable, like a worn out couch or an old shirt. God I'm digging myself holes."

"No you're not."

"You're like an old couch. I'm an old couch with no legs."

"Don't say that. You're not, okay?"

How the hell am I supposed to be rational when everything in my being is reaching for him? How can I make the choice that won't end like a nuclear bomb when I'm so irrational that I want to see a natural ending to these feelings, even if that natural end is disasterous?

And no matter how much I want him, want us, I can't say a damn thing. Because I'm supposed to help him stay away. It's our silent agreement. I can't tell him how he's just as familiar to me as I am to him. I can't tell him that talking to him makes me feel a little more sane. I can't say that when I see him, I don't see the imperfections he sees, but an unmired future.

I tell him this, then he has to push me away. Pull away. Keep away. And that hurts the both of us. At least, that's what I'd like to think.

He tells me he doesn't want to hold me back or hurt me. When discussing this with girlfriends, I was told obviously he doesn't know how driven I am, that if I really truly want something, I'm going to get it anyway. That nothing can really get in my way.

I can't tell him that either, due to our unspoken agreement.

I'm railing against these circumstances so much, but so silently. I don't want him to pull away more than he does any given moment. How did I end up loving him? Do I love him? Is this love or an infatuation gone horribly wrong?

How did I get here? And how can I get out without feeling like I've lost something crucial to me?

And the real question is do I really want out?

I don't. I can get out, but I don't want to. Because I want him.

I just keep reminding myself that patience is a virtue.

And then I cry when no one is looking.