I like you so much it’s embarrassing. At this point, I’m not even sure I can honestly call it a like. It’s more of an adoration. An adoration that hides the fact that I’m projecting my fond memories of you onto the current you that you are. I still think you are who you were three years ago when you’re now you three years later.

LinkedIn reminds me of your work anniversary. I sit at my desk while scrolling over to stare at my own profile, wondering if you think my career trajectory is pathetic. Then I feel ashamed that I even care what you think about my career. And then I feel more shame for thinking you would even care. You’re better than that. You’re no classist.

I start to think about you in ways that Adele and Taylor Swift think about their former lovers even though I could never truly relate. The shame intensifies and I feel the warm embrace of regret pull me in.

How I regret not spending more time with you. Listening to you. Talking at you. I was afraid you wouldn’t find me interesting enough, so I took what few times we had and tried not to ruin it.

I didn’t want you to think I was weird. I didn’t want you to hate me. I thought to myself that clearly you wanted more. That’s why I was there, because I wanted more. I wanted to want more, but I couldn’t. I just wanted to hold your hand. And I did once. And I wanted to kiss you. And I did twice.

But that’s all I wanted. Isn’t that weird? I feel like you being you then, you wouldn’t think so, but I couldn’t have been sure about that, so I always went with the most negative of all possible answers. It was how I operated back then, always trying to be what people thought I was, while most likely always missing the mark and hurting myself immensely in the process.

With you, I never wanted to pretend to experience lust. I felt so comfortable in liking you that I didn’t feel like I had to pretend to be the version of me that enjoyed getting naked, joining other people on beds, and touching our bodies together. I wasn’t afraid you would lose interest in me if I didn’t want to be that me. I wasn’t afraid you’d try and fight me into being that me.

I was afraid of me being unafraid and all that that meant. I’d have to say that big word. That incredibly long word. That lugubriously attention-grabbing word: asexual. So I said nothing of it at all. I had said it before to people before you and to much pain. People had said it before me and to much pain. Yes, I was my own biggest fear to others back then. And I’m not proud of it, and I’m sure you wouldn’t be proud of me for that either, but there I go projecting again.

It’s the regret. 30 years of living and regret is still something I can’t quite grow out of and probably never will. I wish I had told you how much you meant to me. Which is to say, I wish I had told you exactly what you meant to me, as big or as small as it may be now compared to then.

I thank you for pulling me out of my room and into the woods. And into feelings I hadn’t felt in years. And into moments I never thought I’d have again when I was at my lowest. I felt bad, like I was innately wrong and broken, and you saw me as nothing like that.

The way you saw me made me nervous, in fact. You looked at me as if I wasn’t necessarily perfect, but yet without any discernible flaws. Everything I was, was good, and everything I could be was fantastic. You didn’t ask me to change. You didn’t ask me to be there for you (and I wanted to be!). You didn’t ask me for anything except to enjoy life with you occasionally. Of course, that offended me.

I turned myself away from you. Purposely ignored texts. Took my time responding to them. And you aren’t a big texter so I was really setting myself up for something way more taxing on my end. Way more painful, too. You weren’t the type to let someone like me make you miss out. I, however, am the type like me to make myself purposely miss out. I got over it way too late.

It was time for our story to end and I began to panic. Had I pushed you too far away? Would it now be disgustingly awkward to ask you to sit and breathe in the air beside me?

Of course it wouldn’t be. Of course it wasn’t. You are you and I am me and gosh, I wish I had your ability to not over-analyze things. But maybe you do, and I’m projecting again.

And but also additionally however and thus: you remember this, too: We sat by the creek. Well, you lay down by the creek. I sat by the creek. My legs pulled up to my chest, arms defensively wrapped around my knees. Socks and shoes guardedly covering my feet while your toes curled up around single blades of grass.

Our conversation consisted of you making observations about the lake, the grass, the brightness of the sun, people walking by with raspas, and our lack of sunscreen and me responding cynically and exhaustedly.

You grew tired of squinting with the sun in your eyes (you had a pair of aviator sunglasses, but you preferred to wear those as a headband, to keep your bangs off your forehead) and pulled your hands up to your eyes to act as shields. I took this as an opportunity to actually look at you for once in the past hour or so we had been sitting there as opposed to you glaring at the sun and then smiling and side-eyeing me for my mopey quips.

Perhaps it was the heat and lack of proper nutrition at the time, but I worked up the courage within the span of ten seconds to say something unsolicited and nice to you!

“You’re so cute!”

And then you giggled. Yes, you giggled. It wasn’t a chuckle. It was a giggle, okay? The giggle itself was so adorable and charming I almost burst into mushy ass flames over it, but I didn’t. I maintained my outward cool while I began to panic on the inside. Oh no, they’re gonna ask me a rhetorical question to which I will not be able to resist a sincere answer because I want to fish for positive reinforcement of my feelings for them.

Through giggles, you mustered up a “Whaaaaat?”

“You’re cute I said! Look at you and your wittol faaaaace.” I reached over and patted you on the knee, which made you spring up way faster than it should have. I panicked more.

“You’re cute, too”, you said. You’re cute, too. You’re cute, too. You. Are. Cute. As. Well. Also.

I transformed into a blob of gummy hearts at that point, but you didn’t notice that happened at all. I set there, melting into a bigger gummy heart. Sure, I had been called cute before, but not by you.

“I didn’t know you thought that! Wooow…”

“What? I told you that when we made out!”

When we made out?!! You wanted to talk about that? Right then? Also which time? Okay, I knew which time. The first time. The third time in a long time I was confident enough to ask someone. I don’t know what it was the second time it was, so it seemed more important in my brain owing to the lack of linear progression I was able to create of my life and the time I spent making out with people.

Bringing up us making out, which was something I severely wanted to do more and often with you, freaked me out. I thought no one would understand never wanting to go further. So much so I didn’t say anything. So much so you noticed that I wasn’t saying anything and stood up. You slid your feet back into your shoes, and reached down to me and offered me your hand. I took it instinctively and you led me for the briefest moment, away from where we sat and let your hand go to continue walking.

You were leading me to the raspa stand. When we arrived, we both stared at its menu in silence. You scrunched your eyebrows up and pointed at the menu as if to ask me if I wasn’t interested, to which I made the same face as you. We laughed and turned away in unison.

We continued to walk in silence for what felt like the longest ten minutes of my life and I wasn’t really sure where we were going. I was getting nervous I was getting boring and if I was getting boring you’d say goodbye. And if you said goodbye, that meant I wouldn’t see you again or at least not for a very long time, when we’d be different people who wouldn’t want to see each other.

“I’m going to miss you.” I let the words fall clumsily and unconfidently out of my mouth which immediately turned downward into a pathetically obvious pout and I stopped to look down at my shoes.

Without hesitation, you placed your hand on my shoulder and with nasally gruffness demanded, “HEY. Don’t be sad.” I whimpered like a sick puppy and softly stomped my feet, not looking up at you.

“I’m…sorry…I’m weird…I just wish I had spent more time with you.”

“Aww.” I hate it when people just say aww to your emotional vulnerability. It made me feel worse, so of course I expressed that and you wanted to fight me over it.

“You’re not weird! Don’t apologize”, you said, through more giggles, which didn’t make me feel any better.

“I totally am.”

“Well you are, but I like it. We’re all weird. I’m weird and you like me.”

“And that’s why I’m going to miss you!”

“I’ll miss you, too. But it’s going to be okay. We’ll get distracted”, you replied with what I now realize was a tinge of sadness. And with that you gave one of my shoulders a squeeze and let go, walking away from me at a glacial pace. I stood there idly waving, pouting outwardly. You finally turned around to smile at me and throw up a peace sign.

“Sorry I didn’t get to see you more. Be safe!”, you said. It was the last time I heard your voice.

Later I texted you, trying to be brave like…trying on roller skates for the first time:

Me: I should have gone with you! :(

You: You wanted to? You should have.

You: It’s not too late…

Me: Nooo, I can’t. You’re busy. It wouldn’t be worth it :) Have a nice night!

You: Okay! You too

And then we never spoke again and my life has been exactly as it seems based on this story. Only now I am gaining the courage to say “asexual” more and more…okay, I usually say “ace”, but that’s not the point of all this. And that’s something, right?

Perhaps I can finish typing this and finally realize that as much as I adored you back then, that adoration is finally leaving. Perhaps in the end, you are a good reminder for me to believe people when they tell me they like me and to accept that my ace ass is worthy of love.

You are a good reminder and I guess I like you enough just for that now. Sometimes it’s better to let things stay in the past and learn from them, than to spend the rest of your life picking at them like a never-healing scab. I know that’s kind of a gross image, but it’s how I treated a lot of could-have-been relationships. Hell, it’s how I have treated a lot of have-been relationships.

Part of me wishes I had the courage to have told you how I felt back then, but part of me knows that by not exposing that part of myself when I wasn’t ready, I listened to my heart a lot more than I can still comprehend.