There was a boy I knew in high school. We’ll call him Bob, because I am a huge fan of internet anonymity and because there’s a chance, however microscopic, that he might read this some day.
Bob is nearly three years younger than me. In fact, he was in most of my sister’s classes throughout elementary and middle school, and he went to the same church as me, during the period when I actually went to church regularly. I liked him well enough; he was smart and funny and nice. I didn’t see him much, so I didn’t think too much about him. He was just there, and had always been there, and that was that.
I found out that Bob had a crush on me when I was a high school freshman. My aunt accidentally let it slip, having heard it from my mother, who had heard it from Bob’s mother, who I can only assume heard it from Bob himself. I was briefly amused and then forgot all about it. After all, the original conversation had happened months ago, and I didn’t see Bob very often. I was sure he must have gotten over his silly crush long ago.
So I was absolutely blindsided when I found out that he still liked me, years later, when he was a freshman and I was a senior. He started sitting with my friends and me at lunch, and then hanging out with us before school, and then texting me several times a week. I suspected he was interested in me, but I ignored it. I convinced myself that no crush could last that long, that I was making a big deal out of nothing, and who would have a crush on me, anyway? We were friends, and we often teased each other and joked around, and surely I was mistaking that for something else.
Long story short, I wasn’t. Bob made several attempts to start a relationship, which I shut down. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him. I did. But something about him made me uncomfortable. My only real relationship had been a week and a half of pure hell, and my instincts were telling me that this was going to end up the same way. The thought of such a relationship filled me with dread and could even start panic attacks (not that that was difficult to do). I agonized over this for weeks. I liked him, I really did, but obviously I didn’t like him the right way. There was something wrong with me, that I couldn’t just accept that a sweet, funny guy was infatuated with me.
It wasn’t his romantic feelings, or mine, that ruined our friendship. If I had to pick one thing, it was probably our stubbornness. He wouldn’t give up, and I wouldn’t give in. Every three or four weeks, he would text me, asking me to explain my reasons for turning him down and trying to convince me to give him a chance. It seemed to me that we were having the same arguments over and over again, and every time I got angrier. He wasn’t listening to me! I was saying no very clearly and explicitly, and for some reason he couldn’t get that through his head!
I realize now that I was probably giving him the world’s most convoluted mixed signals, so I’m not suggesting I’m at all blameless in this situation, but that’s another post. We had regular fights for a few months before I got fed up and completely ended the friendship. I told Bob that I thought he didn’t respect me and I didn’t want to talk to him again, although I put it rather more diplomatically, and we went months without talking. It’s only very recently that we’ve begun speaking again, very tentatively, under the agreement that any mention of romance means that the conversation is over.
This is getting rather long, so tune in next time when I get to the point of this long, rambling story.
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