A secret love

I stood there today in the drizzle, staring over the rolling fields just beyond the entrance of the cemetery. I tried to imagine you sitting there and giving me that silly grin like you always do.

‘I know, Jean. I knew long ago and it is the same for me.’ She said to me. I looked blankly at her, too stunned to react. What is it that she knows? A love that has no name to it, I thought to myself: how could it be? Surely it was an abomination, a direct ticket to hell. I was ashamed that she knew, I couldn’t face myself or say anything more and she left it as that, unsure and nervous over my silence.

We spent the subsequent months being the ‘best’ friends that we were to the rest of the world. We were inseparable, much to the amusement of her boyfriend, who would say in jest that he was dating two girls instead of one. To which I suffered silently in my adolescent guilt, together with the isolation and loneliness I felt for being gay.

S was a quiet girl in class. I often found her sitting alone, watching the rest of us monkey around and chatting up a storm. Maybe it was instinct or just plain curiosity; I soon made my way toward her to see if I could get her to join the rest of us. It was not long before we became good friends. I found myself searching for her between breaks and she, for me. There was an unmistakable connection that we had, as if we could read each other’s mind.

We spent many hours after school at the park nearby, sitting on a small hill, looking at the fluffy white clouds, trying to out-imagine each other over the many challenging shapes and sizes. It was a silly game we played, so that we could hang out with each other a little longer. Sometimes she would brush her hand on mine and turn around to look at me expectantly. In spite of my desires, I would pull away every single time.

We graduated soon after and went on with our busy lives, preparing for the next stage of tertiary education, but she was always with me in my thoughts. One day, S called and delivered the grim news of cancer. I tried to tell her how I feel, but the words never came. I was too scared and unsure.

A week later, I received a phonecall from her mother and was told that S wanted to see me one last time. I raced all the way to her place and was greeted by the sound of tears. I was too late…

Today, I stood at the entrance of the cemetery, wishing and hoping that you were sitting there grinning at me. This time, I sat down next to you under the protective shadow of a large tree, the leaves shuddering in all that drizzle and wind. I was a teenager again and we were alone together again. ‘S, I do love you. I’ve always love you.’ I whispered to the wind, hating myself, hoping S would hear it and forgive me.

For a long moment, I stared blankly at the emptiness of the place, my heart heavy with regret. I saw her with my inner eye again, this time with her arms extended; I couldn’t help but grin back through my tears. Under the looming clouds, I hugged her one last time, not wanting to let go, but I knew I must and made my way down that winding path alone.

I miss you.