The ‘friendzone’ worked for us. I knew I liked him when I noticed I was comfortable stoned around him. I generally went inward when I was high, my introverted nature magnified. I was happy like that. But around him came the belly-laughs. The munchies. Closeness and comfortability. Like the time we found ourselves holding hands, almost as if it happened subconsciously. Or when he blew a stream of sweet smoke at me, to watch it rebound off my cheeks, his lips getting closer and closer until they landed on my face. Or when we were in a room full of people, speaking telepathically it seemed, his eyes focused on my eyes, or my legs, or lips, or tits (we were in our late teens after all). They lay on me, regardless. When he drove me home, at our goodbye, he’d stop centimetres from my face with a dopey grin on his, before he’d touch his nose to mine. Or I’d kiss his cheek with my eyelashes. We were always giggling. The sexual energy was torturous at times. I’d always force myself out of the car at that point, to save the situation from becoming real, ugly, as I still thought most relationships became. I was still hurting, recovering, and he was a safe space to heal. There was no serious attachment yet, no jealousy, no arguing, and something told me that a step forward wasn’t right for us. We never had sex. Hell, we never even kissed. But the romance within the friendship was soothing. Everyone thought we were together, but he slept with other girls. I was interested in other boys. Those add ons were only mentioned in passing. And in the times we were together, those people didn’t matter. I swore to god that we were on the same page, and it was confirmed by him in time. It just took me this long to find the words.