Unworthy (2)

Part One Here

Three – 20 May 2016
Wehann and I met back in my eighth grade. Our friendship was corny in the sense that we clicked right away. Please do not mistake this fact as to mean that we are close, because we’re not. For the first time I learned that you can have a best friend without getting too personal with one another. At first I found it quite bizarre, but as time passed I got used to it.

Wehann shared (and still shares) my love for writing. In the beginning, he was fiercely protective of his work. Nobody was allowed to read it, not even me. It’s only now that we don’t see each other anymore, and haven’t in the last three years, that he’s allowing me a glimpse. Wehann’s words are… well, it’s difficult to describe. They manage to evoke such vivid imagery and emotion that it makes it difficult to breathe sometimes. I never could manage to convey my feelings to him about it, and I;m sure he thinks I hate it – which is certainly not the case.

Wehann is the person I message first when I start to go into one of my lows. He is the one I rant and rave to lately. Don’t misunderstand me, André is the man in my life and the one I trust most. Sometimes I just need someone else. There’s no harm in that . . . is there?

In my latest message I tell Wehann that I might have feelings for someone other than André, but not that the feelings I have are for him. I tell him how broken and awful and confused I feel. I tell him how I notice André wilt.

In reply, Wehann sends me his most recent writing. It seems to be an effort to take my mind off all the things occupying my thoughts. He has improved significantly since the last piece I read, which I thought was impossible, and it manages to bring a smile to my face.

Wehann then tells me about his newfound relationship. While I am ecstatic for him, and feel that he deserves this slice of love, my heart hurts. This relationship means that there will never be a chance for us.

And yet – André.

I am selfish. I am horrible. I am jealous. I am hurt.

 

Four – 31 May 2016

Wehann phones me out of the blue and invites me to Stellenbosch for a week, where he is currently studying Criminology. I don’t know what to say. It seems strange, out of character for him. We haven’t seen each other in years.

“Just come, please?” It is a quiet plea that tugs at my heart. “You can have the guest bedroom all to yourself, okay? I promise. The guys won’t have guests over while you’re here.”

I want to agree, but I know that If I do visit, my love for him will only deepen. I can’t have that. I can’t do that to André. I hold the phone limply against my ear while I think.

My beautiful man clears his throat. He’s finally woken up. I tell Wehann to give me a moment and I glance at André. He’s leaning against the doorframe of my bedroom. He seems exhausted even though he’s slept over nine hours.

“Who’s that?” André asks.

I tell him about Wehann’s invite. André’s hazel eyes seem to cloud over for a second. A tired smile lifts his lips and he takes my hand in a tight grasp.

“When will you leave?” he asks lightly as he takes the phone from my other hand.

My eyes widen. Words escape me and I stare at him, hurt and confused and angry. Words won’t form in my mind. I don’t know how to ask him why he’s encouraging my visit, not when he knows. Pathetic tears prick at my eyes.

I listen, feeling numb, as André finalises my trip to Stellenbosch with Wehann. His tone is genuinely warm and friendly. I turn around and crawl to my pillows. I am caught between two stunning men. How is it possible to feel this way? I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate myself at this moment.

The Black Dog has taken up residence in my life and is shadowing me wherever I go, whatever I do. Today is no exception. I close my eyes and bury my face in my teddy’s soft brown body.

Late that night I ask myself what good my new pocket knife will do if it won’t even slice open my skin?

 

Five – 6 June 2016

Goodbyes are awful, and the knowledge that I won’t see André for another few months tears at me. I regret not putting more effort into my school work. I regret not applying to university. I regret not moving to Pretoria with him.

I lift my head and kiss André. I’m not ready to let go of him. Honestly, I don’t think I ever will be.

André pulls away after a moment. His hazel eyes burn into mine. “I love you, Louise. Don’t ever forget that.”

I watch in silence as he climbs into his car. He stares at me for a second, a whirlpool of emotions reflecting on his face. André opens his mouth as if to say something and I hold my breath in anticipation, but his words never comes. Instead he starts his car and drives away. I turn around and re-enter my mother’s house. It’s cold inside and I feel drained of energy. I close my bedroom door and lay down on my bed. I open my laptop and stare at my message history with Wehann. I feel empty and some part of me desperately needs Wehann to fill the void. It’s a gross need that I cannot shake off. I’m burning to tell Wehann, to let it all out and tell him everything I’m feeling. I have become so used to unloading on him. Another desperate part of me wants to confess how I feel about him. I want to tell him, and I want us to be happy. A peculiar feeling of imposing halts my fingers. Life doesn’t work that way. Besides, we both have significant others. How can I bother him with my fears, insecurities, problems and feelings while he has his own life, his own problems, to deal with? I don’t want to burden him anymore than I already have.

A message blinks onto the screen. Much to my surprise it’s from Wehann. “Why are you up?”

“I can’t sleep,” I type back.

“Is that all?” And when I don’t answer, “Hugs.”

That simple gesture allows me to break down for the first time in what feels like weeks. I argue with myself, telling myself not to burden him, to not bother him or irritate him or unload on him again.

My soul is crying for him, for them, and I die more and more as the seconds tick by. I’m so selfish. Shit, I can’t do this. I can’t cope, I can’t live with myself.

I can’t.

I can’t.

After an indiscernible amount of time I give in. I unload some. My fingers fly across my keyboard as I explain some of my troubles to Wehann. I don’t confess my love, but just about everything else is spilled for him to see.

He responds in kind, but… the conversation doesn’t last.

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