Falling in Love with my Gay Best Friend

Have you ever been in love with someone you knew couldn’t love you back? And is love different if unrequited? Despite her suspicions about his sexuality, this writer remained hopelessly in love with her best friend. She chronicles her butterflies, her brave admission, her brutal heartbreak, and her bittersweet goodbye. Her experience shows us that even unrequited love can teach us lessons. And even when the line between platonic and romantic blurs, friendship is a form of love in itself.

I don’t know if you’ve ever been in love. If not, this is what it’s like: Your insides churn like butter’s being made, every cliché becomes a holy mantra, you bundle yourself up in blankets to substitute their hugs. Suddenly, your mind becomes a time machine that portals you through universes of your future; you, laughing on the peeling grey couch he found on the side of a quiet street. “It’s in good condition,” he’ll say, before twisting you into a warm pretzel hug. That was the feeling I lived with for two and a half years. I wanted to burst into a thousand confetti pieces, but we were such great friends, and no one wants to ruin a solid friendship by confessing their undying love. Also, I had some suspicions about his sexuality, so I ended up tucking away my feelings and playing the “we’re just friends” card. In reality, every time he asked to hang out, I imagined a date. Every time our hands brushed, I wanted to hold on. I was crushing hard, and so, at the end of high school, after graduation, hands shaking, palms sweating, I dialed his number. When he picked up, I finally said the words I’d only whispered to myself, “I like you.” There was no awkward silence, no shock in his tone. He said something along the lines of “thank you” or “I know.” He didn’t say it dismissively; I could tell he was genuinely flattered, but that was that. While I knew his lack of response was a rejection, our friendship continued the way it always had and I appreciated his casualness. After high school, we attended different universities and grew apart. Two years later, he messaged me: “Let’s meet up.” So, we did. And, as soon as we started talking, the small batch of butterflies that I thought had disappeared quickly migrated back into my chest. He told me about a guy - someone he had been casually seeing. Although I knew, this was the first time he had openly confessed his sexuality to me. Hearing the words out loud felt like someone had jerked the rug from beneath me: knowing I was falling but unaware of the impact, until I felt the jolting pain of my knees hitting the hard cement.

A hurricane of feelings stirred within me: embarrassment that I liked someone who was gay; embarrassment from not knowing he was gay; embarrassment from being rejected without even getting a chance. Feelings of hurt and betrayal from him, from myself, from the fact that I never stood a chance, that I analyzed all the signs and situations completely wrong; the fact that he never felt or would feel the same heart-wrenching excitement for me that I felt for him. I felt betrayed by my lack of ability to detect romantic affection from friendship-affection. The fact that, although I suspected he didn’t like girls, I couldn’t stop myself from feeling what I felt for him. I wanted to deny ever liking him, I wanted to convince myself that had I known he was gay, things would’ve been different. I wanted to downplay my feelings for him, crush them, and bury them out of existence. As we walked side-by-side, even after all those years of absence, I still felt a sour mix of hurt, hate, and embarrassment. Rejection from someone is one thing, but rejection from someone who doesn’t like girls stirred something else. When I look back at the four-page letter he gave me after we graduated, his words never fail to transport me back in time: “I thought you were a shameless idiot in Grade 9. But you changed me, step by step, to become a person who (sometimes) thinks in other perspectives when conflicts occur. You always say I’m fake; I actually disagree with you. Maybe I used to be really fake but now I’m at least 70% real. I am trying my best to defend others (e.g. I fight for Lena* when people try to cut in line). But Kim, you have to be more confident with your thoughts and ideas, don’t be afraid to speak up if you disagree with something. Believe in yourself and follow your heart.” It’s cringey, it’s cheesy, and there are some grammatical errors I’m itching to fix. But his words feel like a time capsule—tangible evidence of a once close relationship. While we may not talk anymore, his letter reminds me of a time of innocence and genuine friendship, for which I’ll always be grateful.

by Kimberly Ng