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Secret Lovers

I fell in love with her in eighth grade.

I actually had fallen in love with her earlier. I had known her since I was eight. But I’d never even considered that she might be more than a best friend to me. At least until eighth grade.

I’d never paid attention to our race, either. We grew up in southern Virginia, the children of stereotypical hicks. She was black, I was white. We were best friends. It never even occurred to me that it was strange. And then I fell in love with her.

I'd never even paid attention to our genders. We were both girls. There's nothing wrong with that. At least, not until I fell in love with her.

I remember the exact second that I knew it was love. We were talking on the phone, and she said that she’d have to go soon and I thought, no, I love you. And then I thought about what I thought. Is that true?

Yes.

And so I was in love. I never knew any better.

Though, that was near the eighth grade. And what comes after eighth grade? High school.

Separate high schools.

I had been accepted to a local arts school. She hadn’t. And there we were.

And there I was. Alone.

The first day, I cried. The second day, I faked sick. The third day I dropped out.

I couldn’t do it.

She called me on the phone, kissed the phone, said she loved me, only me, said she would die for me, said she couldn’t stand it without me, said she didn’t want anyone else, said that it was all a façade, said so many things that I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I came back to her.

And when I came back, she hugged me, kissed me on the cheek, and then we were best friends again. Overdramatic.

Every day I plastered on a smile, covering my feelings. I put on the saddest music I knew and I cried. She held me, in my fantasies, and said it would get better. I asked her how when she was the one causing my tears. And then she would dissipate as if there was never really such an angel.

I never told her of my feelings because it would just sacrifice our friendship. That was the last thing I wanted. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. I didn’t want what we already had to go away. So I kept quiet.

I hate people who say they’re in love. So many aren’t. Justified, I was never, and therefore I knew that what I felt was real. Real love is against adversity. I hoped, because if that was true, I had all the love in the world.

Then she died. Just like that.

You should always live life like it’s your last day alive, because you never know when you’ll be just another crimson smear on the highway in front of your house.

They had a close casket funeral.

I sat in the alcove of the church, all alone, and didn’t cry. I didn’t have any tears left.

She was the type of person that knew what they wanted. She had a notebook, which said, on the first page, that no one was to read without her permission, and that in the case of her death, I was to read the notebook.

I got the notebook.

“December 22, 1998,

“I love her. I do. I’m starting a d*mn diary because of how much I love her. It frustrates me that I can’t tell her. Why can’t I tell her? We’re best friends. She went to an arts school for three days, and then left to come back to this crappy school. She loves me. No, she doesn’t. She keeps giving me false hopes. That’s the only thing about this love business. I think I’m over her, and there she is again. She’s in my mind, in my heart, and I go home and cry about her every night. What am I to do? Who do I have to tell? When your best friend’s the problem, who can you go to? Godd*mn. I want to die. No I don’t. I want to get over her. I want to love her. I want her to love me. I want to live and love and I can’t. Tears stain paper. I’m sad. I can’t do this.”

And I have no tears left to cry. Author notes It's a different type of secret lovers. And for your information, most of this is true. No one died, though, but it made it seem tragic. In real life, we are now dating. But anyways. It's a subject very close to my heart, so I'm afraid I couldn't really word it much more. It's more of an abstract descriptions of my emotions. So yeah. I mean, I felt so strongly about it. I found it very hard to elaborate or write as if it were a story, because it was real. I dunno. Enjoy, though.

For a contest entitled "Options Inside" by the beautiful Taylorthebeautiful, this is for option 3 and even a bit of 8. With love and with best friends, though I think it's a little more tragic than you were thinking for option 8. But I don't know because I'm not you. And I agree, love is the most amazing thing to feel, though not always what you want.
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