The Life and Death of Unrequited Love

I flew across the country yesterday to tell the woman I had loved my entire life goodbye for the last time. 

Why for the last time? Because she died. 

Why did I fly across the country? Because we lived in different states. 

The thing is that she never loved me. So, I decided there wasn’t much reason to stick around once she was married.

There was always something in me that thought maybe distance, time, an occasional night of drinking would slowly kill the way I felt about her. It didn’t. Even my love for God never erased it. And I wasted a life where I could have known her, been friends, shared in her beauty, even if it wasn’t the way I wanted. But I didn’t because I was too damn stubborn to accept anything less than the level of reciprocity that I wanted. Too late did I realize that life was better with even a sprinkle of her to ease the pain of not knowing her.

For decades as I watched movies, listened to music, and ate food, I wanted to share it with her, know what she thought. But she was doing all of that with the man she loved. After she told me she was getting married, my world melted. So, I ran away, not just to the other side of the country, but within myself.

I hid and buried every feeling under layers of protective measures. I chased artificial highs and sought authentic emotions and relationships along the way. Anything to make my life feel full and whole. Because people get over these things as they live life. Isn’t that right?

You don’t fall in love with someone when you’re eight years old and feel the same about them for the rest of your life, even when they don’t reciprocate. When you have a wife and kids you love dearly. Those head-over-heels, butterflies-in-your-stomach, can’t sleep at night, knife twists go away, right?

Apparently, that’s not right.

How am I going to do this?

My thoughts race as I’m riding in the back of a stranger’s car taking me to the service. Trying to hold back the tears because I hate making people uncomfortable and embarrassing myself. At this moment, though, neither of those really matters to me. She’s gone. 

And yes, you may wonder what difference it makes if I hadn’t seen her in so long? There are two reasons.

First, when I knew her, she was a flower in a world of concrete. She was authentic and rare. A type that I spent my life searching for again, but with no luck. And now, she just isn’t. She meant the world to me almost since the day she walked into third grade. I still remember that moment. I remember all the moments. When she let me have a few dances in middle school. When she let me take her out on a date when we were teenagers. Our summer before college, when we were best friends. She gave me chances, but you don’t feel what you don’t feel. She was never going to pretend. If she was anything, she was herself, which is uncommon to say the least.

Second, no matter how small and absolutely unlikely, with breath in you both, there’s always this slight chance, even if infinitesimally small. We both find ourselves to be ninety years old, single, and she finally says, “Well, alright, why not?” Maybe not the stuff of fairy tales, but it would have been for me. Even if it was one day where she let us be together. And now there isn’t that possibility.

Looking at the driver’s phone on the dash, we’re four minutes away from our destination. I’m shaking. Except for her brother, Terrace, who has remained one of my best friends over the years, I likely won’t know anyone else there. I love him dearly and have shared my life with him, except for this one thing. I never stopped loving her. 

He doesn’t know. He thinks I am a rational human being who moved on decades ago. No one understood how much I loved her. I rarely talk about her, never bringing up the past. Or maybe he knows the truth; he’s a smart guy.

The car drives away from the chapel as I stand in the blustery, early fall afternoon. It looks like a storm is rolling in from the coast. If only it were here, I could cry and pass it off as rain.

Terrace was shocked that I was going to make the trip. If I broke down into a complete balled-up mess like I wanted to, like I was on my hotel floor last night, I can’t imagine trying to explain that. I wasn’t supposed to care about her anymore.

“How long has it been since you’ve seen her?” He asked me on the phone two days ago.

I told him I didn’t remember. It was a lie. I knew exactly how long it had been.

“You’re one of my best friends; I’m coming for you.” I replied. 

That wasn’t a lie, but not the whole truth. I would always have been there for her, even if she didn’t know it, even though I couldn’t tell her that.

Inside the building, Terrace spots me in the procession of people saying goodbye. I give a mostly unemotional head nod in response as I wait in line to give my condolences to the family. I don’t know anyone else. A whole life she had that I wasn’t a part of. One I always wanted to belong to, though.

The large bouquets of flowers obscure the view of her. I don’t know if I’m ready to look yet anyway. Will I ever be?

Scuffling of shoes on the old wooden floors help my mind fade into a rhythm as I try not to focus too much on this moment.

“Thanks for coming.” Terrace says, as we embrace.

“Of course, you’re like a brother to me.” I try to be breezy in my response. I would have fought the world to get here.

He continues talking. In my peripheral vision, she’s there in the casket, so most of his words are a blur. I register enough to shake my head when appropriate, mentioning a random memory from our childhood. But all I can think about is her.

I move to the casket. The face I haven’t seen in thirty years looks back at me. Well up, into the heavens, but I stand there. She’s aged, but she’s still beautiful. I want to cling to this moment forever. I’m still in love with the girl I knew when we were young. And I don’t know what she became, but I can’t imagine it’s someone I wouldn’t love. The hardest thing is that I never got the chance to know.

I want to express my love for her, tell her everything I couldn’t in life. The things I had when we were young. Maybe I told her I would always love her, but who believes that’s true when a twenty-year-old says it? Even if she didn’t love me back, I just wanted her to know I always did. 

“Goodbye, old friend,” is what I say surrounded by people I don’t know. People she actually loved.

You will always mean the world to me. You always have. Is what I am thinking.

Would we have been friends if I pursued it? I don’t know and for many years I don’t think I could have handled it. Being in her orbit while she loved someone else. By the time I could, I felt it was too late. But I wish I had at least tried.