I’m in shambles when I steer my truck into your driveway. Outside, the rain is louder than my engine, and for a moment, I debate shifting the truck into reverse and leaving before I make a choice I regret. I mean, why risk it when I could stay safe and dry? I let my trembling hand move to the gearshift, but then I stop, my eyes on the windshield. The wipers swish back and forth, the rhythm nearly in time with my pounding heartbeat, and I decide I can’t leave. If I do, I’ll never come back again. I’ll never see you again. The regret will eat me alive, and I won’t be able to meet your eyes like I used to.

 It might destroy me, and it might not. I try to reassure myself that the only thing I would regret is never finding out.

Slowly, I cut off the engine and watch the windshield wipers come to a stop. Then, once the sound of my heart is quieter than the rain, I open my door and hop out, into the downpour. It’s late evening now, so the world is dark and misty and cold, and I shudder inside my jacket, which really isn’t doing much to keep me warm.

An eternity passes before I make it to your stoop. I raise my hand, hoping I’ll knock before I have even the smallest opportunity to rethink it and back out, but my mind is quick and catches up before my knuckles can meet the door. I go still, suck in a deep breath, and give the door three good knocks.

I remember telling you once that your house always made me feel lonely. It’s out in the countryside where the nearest neighbors are far out of sight, and in the darkness, it feels even emptier. There’s a single light next to the door, and that’s it. I’ve always wondered how you could live like this. Isn’t it lonely for you, too?

 Sometimes, you and I would stand on the deck out back and watch the night envelope the fields. You compared it to a boat in the middle of the ocean once. You said, if you looked over the railing, it was nothing but pitch black. I could hardly come close to the edge of the deck without my stomach turning, so I’d sit in the glow of your deck light while you stood against the railing, and we’d talk to each other just like that—a good distance between us, little to no eye contact. I didn’t really mind it. You were the only friend in my life, and I could have sat out there with you for hours, talking quietly, eyes on the back of your head. 

But now, I needed to face you straight on.

Usually, I plan with you before visiting, so the surprise on your face is expected. Your eyes meet mine through the narrow space between the door and the frame, swimming with confusion and a tinge of concern.

“Hey,” I say, as if this is a casual meet-up.

“Hey…” You raise your brows. “Everything okay? You didn’t text, did you? ’Cause I didn’t get anything.”

“I didn’t, sorry.” I let out a short laugh. “It was a sudden decision. I should have, though. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all good.” You give me a reassuring smile and open the door. “Come on in. I was just getting the house ready for sleep. Are you cold? I can get you some blankets and tea. I’m all out of hot chocolate, though. And here, hang your coat. I’ll take it for you.”

I let you slide the jacket off my shoulders, and soon, you and I are in the living room, snuggled together on the couch, fluffy blankets wrapped around our bodies. We let the quiet drag on for some time. The rain continues to fall outside, a gentle, soothing stream of sound. Your living room looks the same as it has for the past five years: birch wood and white accents, with a fireplace at the center of attention. There is no TV. You always claimed TV only heightened one’s mental chaos. I always imagined the disconnect had to make you feel lonely, among other things, but not once since I’ve known you have you ever expressed you were lonely. In fact, against all odds, it sometimes seemed to be the complete opposite. I’ve always thought you were an anomaly, in the best way possible. You are my greatest fascination.

I am clueless as to how long it’s been before you finally break the silence.

“So, is there a specific reason for visiting?” you ask. “I’m only curious because usually you text me beforehand, and this is the first time you haven’t.”

“I mean, like I said, it was a sudden decision.” I’m stalling, and I know it. I resist the urge to chuckle again, another giveaway of my nerves, and focus instead on clasping my hands tightly together under the warmth of the blanket, anything to anchor myself. “I just…have some things I wanted to say to you. Face-to-face.”

“Oh.” That single word is laden with dread. “Is it bad?”

“No, no, it’s nothing bad, I promise. It’s just—” I falter and quickly try again. “Look, you know our friendship means the world to me, and what I’m about to say…I’m scared it might ruin it all. So I just need you to listen and try not to react too much. Please?” I tilt my head to look at you. You’re staring straight ahead and make no move to meet my eyes.

“Why say it if you’re scared of somehow ruining our friendship, then?” you question. It catches me off guard ever so slightly; it’s not the response I’m expecting, and I blanch internally, suddenly regretting having said anything at all. Is there a way I can get myself out of this? Isn’t it too late? I tested the waters, and now I’m terrified they might rain down on me.

In the silence that follows, I grasp desperately for the right thing to say. “I don’t know, it just feels like it’s something that needs to be said no matter what the stakes are. I mean, I came here in the rain, after all.”

“On a whim,” you add.

“Which I’d argue makes it even more crucial that I follow through with my decision.”

 At last, you look at me, but I can’t read you. “You know, in any other scenario, I’d love to listen to what you have to say. I always have. But I don’t think anything that threatens our friendship is worth saying. And I’m truly sorry, but it’s probably better you keep it to yourself, whatever it is.”

I deflate, nearly suffocating from such a painful blow to the gut. “You don’t think it’s worth it at all?” I exclaim. “We’ve been through so much together. If there’s even a slight chance that our friendship might withstand this, you’d still rather I keep it all in? I’ll go insane!”

You look away again. “I only feel that way because our friendship means the world to me, too, and I can’t understand why either of us would ever go through with anything that could ruin it.”

“Then just promise me nothing can ruin it. Whatever I say, just promise nothing will happen to us. That’s all I need.”

“You don’t even have that kind of faith,” you tell me, clearly tired and worn. “Which is exactly why I said it’s for the better that you keep it to yourself. For the sake of our friendship.”

Fed up with the back-and-forth, I blurt it out: “I love you.”

Originally, when I realized my feelings for you, I had come up with a hundred different scripts and a hundred different possible outcomes for each one. I grappled with them for months, trying to decide which one captured my feelings the best without yielding too many consequences as a result. And during those months, I kept telling myself that the right time would come, and when it did, I would know—I couldn’t possibly miss it. It wasn’t until earlier tonight that I realized I was wrong about that. There is never a right time—only the time that you choose to be brave enough to finally do it. And sitting here on the couch with you, nothing but silence between us, I wonder if I’ve ever been any braver than I feel right now. Putting everything at risk like this, setting my heart out in the open, this terrible mixture of vulnerability and rawness…it all seems like too much for any human to bear. With the turmoil building inside me, I can’t tell whether or not I feel more burdened than before. All I know is it’s too quiet, too still. You’re not saying anything, even though we both know you should be.

“I’ve loved you for a while,” I continue. I speak cautiously, as if I might poke the fire too hard and cause it to explode. “A few months, to be more specific. And the whole time, I thought my biggest fear was you not feeling the same way. But I realized that’s not true. The thought of never confessing to you scares me even more. I know it’s a huge risk, which is just as terrifying, but there’s no way I could have kept that kind of information inside me forever. It felt like I was constantly bursting at the seams.” I take a breath, realizing I’ve been rambling, and your eyes have turned to me again. “So that’s why…even though you said I should keep it to myself, just know I tried. In the beginning, it felt like I would be able to. I even thought the feelings might pass. But it only seemed like they got stronger the more I waited, and I just couldn’t stand to wait anymore.”

When I’m finished, your living room is silent again. We’re looking at each other but saying nothing. Now, however, you’re clearly stricken—eyes wide, lips slightly parted, all color drained from your face. It’s a look I’ve never seen on you before, and though it fills mewith alarm, I keep my gaze steady on yours, waiting and hoping and internally begging for anything to put this to an end. Despite the fear, though, I notice a tinge of relief—I did it after all. The only issue is, the burden of confessing is now replaced with the burden of your reaction, which, at the moment, is going in the opposite direction of what I’d hoped for.

You blink, turn away, and stand, letting part of the blanket drop to the floor. “Well,” you say. I wait for more, but after enough silence has elapsed, I realize I’m waiting for nothing. It hits me hard, because you and I have both always been so talkative. It’s part of the reason we connected as deeply as we did.

 “Say something else,” I plead. My eyes settle on the back of your head. I could almost pretend it’s last year, summertime, and we’re out on your deck together, hours into some winding conversation. But unfortunately, everything in this moment is too strong, bitter, and real to be ignored. 

“I don’t really know what to say. Nobody has ever told me anything like this. I don’t know how to process it yet.” You shove your hands into the pockets of your sweatpants and head for the bar counter, leaning your back against it. “You mean everything you said? Truly?”

“Swear on my soul. It’s all true.”

“Hmm.” You close your eyes, tilt your head back a bit, and I stare at you from the couch, suddenly grateful for the blanket and the shield it provides. At least, to an extent, I feel less exposed this way. 

After a moment, I ask one of the many questions burning inside my skull. “I just need to know, does this ruin everything?”

Your eyes remain closed. “I’m not sure yet.”

Also not the answer I was hoping for. “Okay…” I look down. “Then, do you not feel the same way?”

You hesitate, and in that beat of silence, my heart skips, pumping erratically in my chest. I wonder once more how the human body is meant to withstand anything as powerful as love.

“I don’t,” you say, finally. “I’m sorry.”

”Oh.” I look back up, and you open your eyes, and we meet each other’s stares once again. “That’s okay,” I say, “you don’t have to be sorry. I appreciate you telling me the truth.”

You smile, but it’s small, and I can tell you’re still tired and worn, and I’m suddenly racked with guilt for barging in right before you planned on sleeping. I collect the blanket and set it aside. Then I rise to my feet and slide my purse over onto my shoulder.

“Well, I should probably leave, then,” I say. Normally, you try to get me to stay just a few minutes longer, whether that means stalling in conversation or offering me another cup of tea. It’s a running joke between us, and I’m amused every time. Now, however, all you do is nod.

“Sorry again for showing up unannounced, by the way.” I make for the door and slip my jacket back on, going through the emotions as quickly as possible. Even without looking, I can feel your stare following me, and I’m eager to escape the weight of it.

“No worries,” you say. “Drive safe. It’s still pouring out there.”

“’Kay. Um, I guess, sleep well.” I turn, smile, and manage a small wave. “See you later.”

You return the smile from your place at the bar. “Thanks. Bye.”

I’m out the door the moment the words leave your mouth. And as I’m walking to my truck, the only thing I can think about is the sense of finality in your goodbye. “See you later” has always been custom for us, because we agreed it was more casual and less conclusive. Maybe you didn’t say it on purpose, but I can’t shake the feeling either way. 

Pulling out of your driveway, shivering from both the cold and my nerves, I try to reassure myself that I will see you again, that I didn’t ruin everything for nothing. Because, in this moment, that’s how it feels. What did I gain from this besides the temporary relief of confession? Which, by the way, couldn’t have possibly been worth the turmoil raging inside me now. At this realization, regret slams into me. I could have lived with secret feelings. I could have managed keeping them inside. What I _can’t_ live with is the idea that, because I spilled my heart out, you and I will never be the same as we were. Five amazing years with you, and it only takes a single night to throw them all away. The only thing that makes it even worse is that it’s my fault. If I had known, I would have stayed home tonight. I would have never gone through with it, no matter how insane it made me feel to keep it all in. I would have never, ever, ever…

I’m crying before I really even notice it. These tears aren’t silent, either. I’m hyperventilating, gasping for air, gripping the steering wheel with all the strength in my body and still struggling to keep my truck in the right lane. The rain rages on outside, and my poor windshield wipers can hardly keep the glass clear for more than a second. Between that and the tears clouding my eyes, I can’t see anything. I decide to pull over, parking in the shoulder of the road, and let the rest of my tears pour out of my body.

Half an hour goes by, and then, inside the cab of my truck, it is silent, and I am still, staring ahead at the rain hitting my windshield. 

Though I’ve cried myself dry, I’m still aching so terribly I feel sick, and blame keeps digging its claws into my skin. How could I ever love anyone but you? I have no answer. All it does is hurt. 

I flex my hands. Take another breath. Shift my truck into drive. Pull back into the lane. 

The moment I’m driving again, the rain comes to a stop, and my headlights illuminate the path in front of me. It’s refreshing to see clearly again. I can’t help but smile a bit. 

I suppose, for a while, it will hurt. And I will mourn you like you died. And I’m sure there will be times when it feels like I did, too. But you’ve always been my greatest friend. You always will be. It doesn’t matter if I leave tonight and never return. It doesn’t matter if we never speak again. And it doesn’t matter if we forget all about each other. 

At that last thought, I laugh. I would be a fool to forget about someone like you.