"I'll still be your friend; I promise."
You can't keep that promise, I know you can't. I could tell, the moment I started to hug you, the way your breathing started to hitch, the way your heartbeat started to increase; I could feel it against my own. You knew what I was saying already in my silence. You knew what was happening already.
I know I'd apologized so many times; maybe not enough times. And I know, that it meant nothing. I knew that all the sorries in the world couldn't make up for what I was doing. Making you feel that gut wrenching pain of rejection, of loss, of lonliness; I know that feeling, I know it enough to see that I had hurt you much the way I'd been hurt.
But this isn't about me.
It's about you.
The one person who cared so much for me, who said so many sweet things; who was so compassionate and loving. I ripped a piece of your heart, and I know what I did to it. I shredded it. Made that space hollow out. Made you feel sick to your stomach, dizzy to your head. I knew what I did. And on the worst of days too.
On my birthday.
The day you took your own money, bought me so many sweet things. So many bitterly sweet things; the roses are what made my heart ache and my eyes twinkle with abhorrence. It wasn't for you, it wasn't for anyone sitting in that circle of ours. It was for me. Only me. Would I have done this, if -she- hadn't pulled me off to the side? Would I have done this if I would've continued to be friendly with -him-?
I wouldn't have. I wouldn't have done it at all. But things didn't work out that way. She -did- pull me off to the side. He -did- shower me with affection. I accepted it. I knew, that on my birthday I'd be the person to screw things up. Somehow, it was just a strong sense of acknowledgement for the pain I'd cause you this supposedly "special" day. I told you I loved you, but that my love was limited; it was only that of a brother, or a deep friend.
You accepted that.
Or so you made it seem. I could tell by the way you held me, by the way you exhaled so shakily and clung to my shirt. I could tell by the way you cried, when those salty tears of yours stained against the couch, or my shirt; I could tell that you didn't. I knew there was that hate inside, that anger that had just boiled up.
What made it worse?
You knew I'd do this. You asked me why I hadn't said this earlier. I told you I didn't know. I told you that I couldn't come up with the right time. And now, I'm all days of the year; I did it. I did it the day you proved just how much you cared for me. With those damned roses. Those three cursed roses now in a vase in my room on my bed-side table. You will never know how I wish I could return your feelings.
How I could like you.
I tried so hard; so very hard to please you. To watch the corner of your lips pull up, and hear you laugh with joy. I wanted that so badly, I started to turn into a monster of greed. I didn't think about the consequences, and now, you're suffering. And I am as well. I'm decaying slowly by the guilt that keeps eating away at me. I can't tell you enough how much I wish I wouldn't have said yes, how I wouldn't have put you through all this misery.
Those tears I saw in your eyes, when you didn't want to look at me. I cried too. I cried, and knew that I shouldn't be crying. I had nothing to cry about. I was the bastard. I was the one who did this to you; I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I asked you:
"Will you forgive me? Will you still be my friend?"
"I'll still be your friend; I promise. Of course I forgive you."
I wish we wouldn't change. I wish time could fastforwad to a place where we would be smiling, and happy around each other. I did this at the worst time. And all I can say now, is that I'm sorry and forever I will be sorry. Because I love you, my friend, my brother; I'm sorry I did this too you.
Will you forgive me?
. . .