I take the word, friendship, deathly serious. Even in romantic partnerships, I believe that it is quite imperative that you maintain a certain friendship with the one you’re with. Because when all else falls away, including love, you at least have that one thing you can hold on to. And though, I have never been entirely successful in being friends with the people I’ve been with, I could honestly say that I’ve made sincere efforts to do so, no matter if I failed at it.
His case was no different. In what was my previous attempt to break things off between us, he offered the proverbial olive branch, and asked if we could be at least friends. I said yes, and although, things had not turned out to be simply friendly between us, the offer was made, and I had accepted.
So it hurts to actually realize that it was an empty offer. Maybe in my naïveté, I thought things would be far simpler if we were friends. And because I had counted that maybe since he wouldn’t have to try winning me and luring me in anymore, it would be easier for him to be honest and open with me.
But I guess, honesty, like a lot of things exist in varying degrees. And yes, inasmuch as he tried to be honest about a few things in his life, he wasn’t being completely so. C asked me if I actually expected him to be honest, given the circumstances we’re in. I said no, I didn’t expect him to tell me everything. After all, everyone is entitled to a few secrets, but not that. Definitely, not that. It’s almost unforgivable. I reasoned, “it wasn’t the secret and the lie that makes me so angry, it’s the fact that he had to keep it from me that really makes it hard for me to wrap my head around it.”
I figured, if we were to be friends, don’t I deserve to know even the basic facts about him? Because if I can’t trust him to be honest with even the most basic of facts, how can I even trust him to be honest about the bigger stuff?
I wanted to confront him, and demand an explanation. I wanted to know the reason and the motivation. “But you already know why,” C said. “If he had been upfront about the whole business, would you have even given him a chance?” she asked. “I wouldn’t know,” I said, “Because I never had a chance to make that kind of choice.” All I know is that the truth would have been far better than this.
Life is not at all black and white, I know that, but it can get pretty muddy. And lines are not always drawn or etched in stone, they are sometimes drawn on the sand, and they get blurry. And these are things I constantly realize the longer I’m with him.
I’m nowhere near condoning what he has done, and as far as I am concerned, he is guilty unless proven innocent. I have yet to hear the full story, or his version at least. I just hope I get to hear it sooner than later. I don’t know for how long I can also pretend and maybe lie that I don’t know what I know.
In the far, twisted reaches of my mind, however, I try to find comfort in this thought: “Maybe I should actually feel flattered. He was willing to deny and lie what may be the most important thing in his life, just so he can be with me.” But of course, this could be just my narcissism talking. Or simply the lie I tell myself to make me feel better.
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