You were my best friend, and maybe we were still too young to understand the massive, chaotic concept that was love; it was such an unpredictable force, after all. Sometimes it worked out -and it was wonderful when it did. Other times it ended in bitter tears, balled-up love letters and promises never to love again.
Love seemed so complex.
But what I felt for you was so incredibly simple.
On top of our treehouse, you told me you didn't want to be my best friend anymore.
My heart dropped. I asked you why.
For the longest moment, you kept a very straight face, and my heart continued to drop for fear of what you were about to say. Then, with that unforgettable smile of yours, you corrected yourself and said: "I don't want to be just your friend anymore."
I exhaled. A wave of relief rippled through me.
Unfortunately, that relief was momentary, because I was gripped by something else then, a bizarre sense of trepidation, curiosity, and -in no small part- happiness. My mind began to race, retrieving memories from the last twelve years, the good times and the not-so-good times, building images of a future which could quite possibly transpire.
I remained speechless for some time, and you were waiting for me to say something. Your eyes were wide with anticipation and that unwavering smile was still on your face.
"Johnny," I said, the word melting into a sigh.
"Annie." Your face became straight again, then you laughed. I rolled my eyes. "Sorry. You're trying to be serious. I'll shut up."
Everything was so simple. I knew what I wanted, but words had always been my shortcoming. I was never really any good at expressing myself. I could have attempted to string together something as wonderfully brilliant as the vows at the wedding where we first met, but I knew I would never be able to do my heart justice.
So instead, after a brief silence, I said, "Okay."
"Okay?" Your lips pulled up at the corners.
"Okay."