If Tomorrow Never Comes

10. Only The Truth

It was cold, and wet, and 3 AM, and Alex was walking outside in a soaked jacket. He really needed that cigarette, but he doubted the pack in his pocket would still be dry enough to light. He knew he ought to go back, but he couldn't face Miles. Not after all those things he'd said to him.
Not after I shouted at the person I love most for being what I had hoped he'd be.

As he stomped through a park, his sneakers getting muddy from the path, Alex tried to think about Christmas, his parents, and other happy things, but his mind kept returning to what had happened in the cab.
Why did I get so angry? Why did I hate him for being... Who he is? What he is.
He kept replaying their fight in his mind, though it seemed to be stuck at a certain moment. Miles, eyes red and puffy, looking so incredibly hurt. "I'm not a creepy pervert." Alex winced as he remembered the words. "I'm not a creepy pervert. I'm not a creepy pervert"...

But I am, am I not? I am the one who deserves to be shouted at. I am the one who deserves to be despised by him.

He kicked a tree, desperate to get his anger out. The hard trunk made his foot ache like hell, but he decided he liked the pain. He deserved to be punished. He was so angry at himself, so disgusted with how he felt and what he'd said, that he gladly would've kicked his foot to pulp.
But he knew he couldn't. He had to go back to Miles, and apologize, and try to explain everything. Confess everything. But saying those things to Miles, after everything that had had happened this night, seemed impossible.
Yet he turned around, walking out of the park and towards Miles' house. He only stopped when he saw the light of the nightshop across Miles' home. The cold, electric sign gave him an idea, and he started running.

Sitting on the floor of the nightshop, with the bottle of vodka next to him and a new-bought notebook in his hand, Alex started writing. He ignored the girl behind the counter, who seemed quite annoyed he hadn't left after he'd payed for the vodka and notebook. All he thought about was Miles. For once, he stopped suppressing his feelings, and just wrote what he had known for a long time. He let the pen scratch over the paper, not caring about his handwriting or the most beautiful way to construct a sentence. He just thought and felt and wrote. He apologized. He explained.

Dear Miles,

I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry about what I said and how I looked at you and how I made you feel. I never wanted to hurt you, and I know that if I didn't want to hurt you I shouldn't have reacted like that, but frankly, Miles, I panicked. When you when you came out as bisexual I should've been happy. I should've accepted you as you are and be proud of you for telling me something so personal. But instead I shouted and insulted and incriminated you, and the only way to explain that is that I didn't want to believe what you'd said. I didn't want to believe it because I thought there couldn't really be such a thing as being bisexual, even though I've heard of it, and probably am bisexual myself. (Because I love you, Miles. And I've only loved girls before, but now I love you, I love everything about you and I want to be yours. I want to hold your hand and kiss you and another thousand things I've only wanted to do with girls before. I know you don't feel like that about me, you made quite clear that you're no "creepy pervert", but you need to know, or otherwise you'll never understand why I acted that way.)

I acted that way because I told myself you were joking, that there was no such thing as being bisexual, but that you'd found out how I felt about you and you were mocking me. I said those things because I've been telling myself that I am wrong and bad and disgusting for months, and they were the only things that crossed my mind when you told me what you are.
No, no no no that's not it. I think I said it because I didn't want you to know that I feel the same. That I am the same. And I said it because you reached into my bitterest insecureties and my most desperate hopes, and showed me that all could be well, and I know I don't deserve that. I don't deserve a happy ending. I never deserved your friendship, and the thought that I might get even more, that I might get everything I want, that made me do it. Because I don't deserve you.
And I know that these are all shitty excuses for shitty behaviour, but this is the truth.
I just want you to know that I didn't mean those things I said in the cab, and that I don't care who or what you are because you'll always be perfect to me, and that I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry.
We don't have to be friends anymore, I'd understand perfectly if you want me to leave you alone, but I do hope you'll forgive me for the things I said tonight.

Love, Alex.

He looked at the messy, repetitive letter he'd written, and felt the tears well up.
I fucking love you, Miles. Please forgive me.

He tore out the inked pages, folded them and put them in his pocket. He reached for his bottle of vodka, and poured the strong drink down his throat. He needed it. Then he stood up, almost fell over again, and stumbled to the door, the bottle still in his hand. He pushed himself outside, where the rain had stopped, and crossed the street till he was standing in front of the living room window of Miles' home, next to the door.

The curtains were drawn, but there came light shining through them, and he could hear some muffled sounds.
Alex eyed the mail slit in the front door, and his fingers fumbled with the paper in his coat pocket.
If I were brave, I would leave the note for him to find and go home.
He looked at the yellow curtains again, and thought of the room they obscured, and the people in it.
If I wouldn't be so selfish, I would sacrifice my own happiness for his.
But despite everything he'd written down, he still carried a small beacon of light inside him, a tiny hope that he could patch things up with Miles and restore, if not improve, their relationship.

I'm not brave. I'm not selfless. I'm just a boy, and want my friend back. I want him back, no matter how. I want to laugh with him and tickle him, even if it breaks my heart. I don't want to be honest. I want to be his. And his friend is better than his nothing.

He crumpled the letter into a ball in his pocket, and knocked on the glass.