First drafts are always the clumsiest mistakes, the chaotic edits, and the persistence that keeps them. This story is redundantly simple. There was a boy I liked, and I got rejected. It didn't hurt to be chosen. In fact, I expected it. I was more hurt by the fact that he'd keep me close but out of his space. He'd give me distance but never space. By that, I mean he would allow just enough separation for us to never be truly together, yet he would never allow me the full freedom to detach and move on. I was always around, but never really allowed in. It is unerringly parallel to most people, how it has ceaselessly developed as a norm.

I understood early on that he probably didn't see me that way. More importantly, I never gave him a reason to. It was in the sense that I never gave him any qualities he could find to love or feel safe in, which was a feat in and of itself. As a person, I naturally want to build a safe space for people that no one has properly built for me. I wanted to mix intention and action, and ensure that the unkindness I felt didn't contaminate the humanity in them. With him, it was a stronger urge than usual. In all ways, always wanting to be there for him. I remember telling myself that I would be overstepping, too pushy, and too naggy when, in reality, I was just scared of how well he'd react and, in turn, how negatively he'd look down on me. I deeply feared what would happen if I allowed myself to be truly vulnerable, if I opened up my real feelings or needs. I was afraid that he would view me as weak or burdensome, or that my honesty would destroy the fragile sense of connection we had. Even worse, I imagined him distancing himself completely, leaving me with not just rejection, but the hollow ache of being seen and then discarded. That fear of abandonment felt almost worse than any silent longing I could endure. As a result, I made sure to give him every reason to never see me as someone to pursue, even as a close friend, and I struggled in more ways than one.

In the end, I selfishly wanted to be a part of his life. So I consulted and confessed. He didn't see me that way, but what struck me odd was that, despite not having feelings for me and all the complexities of our relationship, he wanted me close. Initially, I was ecstatic. Naively, I thought it was a chance to win him and over; stupidly, I thought it was him being warm. However, I soon realized that he didn't want me close; he just wanted me present — never far.

One can imagine the heartbreak of understanding that someone didn't actually care at the intimate level of any relationship, but one of simple alliance. As a duty to fulfil, and nothing more. Not even pity. Imagine feeling like you're being loved (platonic or not), regardless of your flaws, when in truth, you are being managed.

I saw it as an act of kindness to keep me close despite the messy bits, but it's not close; it's just present. Something to have but never hold, to own but never cherish.

Perhaps it's for his conscience, so he doesn't feel bad about burning a bridge. Maybe it's for his pride, to maintain the good Samaritan image, or to follow the command of a religious text. In any case, it's never for his heart, his soul, or his mind to reach the logical peace of letting go.

I don't disregard his beliefs, nor his identity. I don't hate him, nor do I resent him. I see him as I see myself, human. He makes mistakes. The reason I quietly say goodbye to the romance we never had and the friendship we could've had is that he still thinks he's right — that I should just go with the flow and not mind the fact he respects distance but not space, whether that's to enter or evade.

I don't mourn the life I imagined or my actions — I just hurt. A lot.

But for me, that isn't what matters anymore. So were the three years I spent learning how to love and persistently present.

What matters most right now are the people who are teaching me love, even helping me realize the situation I was in.

Selfishly, I don't want to give them distance or space. However, because of how I grew up, I naturally give both. I pray that they never take it as a sign of actually wanting both, but rather fearing both.

So I deleted my first draft. Not because I refuse to acknowledge it as a chapter, but because it was a chapter you couldn't close without letting go, you'd be trapped. A chapter you have to let go, and naturally start fresh. Not without the faults of the previous chapter, but with the knowledge of it to build a better story.