A Good Friend

Somebody once told me that a successful TV show, whether it is a sit-com, soap opera, or serious drama, is based on how it imitates real life. I was a little skeptical about what that person said but as I thought about it more I somewhat agree with him. Please take note; it’s not about how accurately they imitate the everyday mundane things in life but rather how it portrays real things relative to the people who watch it. In a sense, it’s how well they tell lies to impart to us certain truths. Case in point: I was watching an episode of a particular show (It’s called Scrubs, I think. It was a hospital sit-rom-com) when it suddenly hit me how real this fictional TV series was (at least this particular episode). The episode revolved around the male protagonist’s efforts in attaining the affections of a female coworker that he had befriended. I can’t really remember much of the details except the concluding scenes of the episode. For some reason or the other, the male protagonist fails in his mission and finds himself in what commonly is known as the “friend zone.” The protagonist, with his overactive imagination, daydreams about a room filled of guys who, at one point or another, had feelings for this particular female co-worker. He shudders at the fact that he was there in that room, but the scene suddenly cuts back to reality. The protagonist was standing in front of the coworker. She said something about needing a friend to talk to and, even though he was still reeling from the fact that he’s only a friend, he obliges to her request. As the credits rolled, I just sat there. I knew exactly what he felt. It was real, at least to me.

***

Almost 5 years ago…

Her name was Andrea (not her real name).We met when we were relatively young. We were just college freshmen when i first took notice of her. We had the same classes, the same major, and identical writing instruments (Parker ballpoint pens). But that’s not all we had in common. We both grew up in a country other than our own. We both lived in Singapore (not the real country) for a good part of our youths. In fact, we lived in the same neighborhood, on the same street even (we didn’t find out till college). We were/are “third culture kids,” as the sociologist Ruth Hill Useem would call kids who grew up outside his or her native country. Being as such, we had the same “liberal” world views. We became fast friends. We already knew some of the same people but we also had this wacky ability to make the exact same friends outside of own circles. We hung out often: coffee here, dinner there, party elsewhere. We were inseparable. We’d laugh at secret jokes, we’d nod at secret glances, and we’d cry secret tears. We had such a relationship that the term “friends” would do disservice to it. It didn’t take long till I realized that I have profound feelings for Andrea. At first it was this soft whisper in the back of my head that kept telling me that she’s the one. Soon, it was a screaming raving lunatic in my head that kept yelling she’s the one.

One particular night, after a long day studying Homer, Classical Mythology, and Roman Architecture, my phone rang. It was Andrea. It wasn’t really out of the blue. It was her habit to call me when she had nothing else to do. I picked up. We talked. We talked for hours. We talked about things, different things. And just as we were running out of things to say for the night, I thought maybe I should bring something up. Perhaps I could pacify the raving lunatic inside my head. So I asked her, of our “friendship,” of whether we had something special, something uniquely ours and thus something profound. She said a lot of things and nothing at the same time. I’m sure she hadn’t meant to go around in circles. I’m sure she knew what I was talking about in the questions I had asked. And I'm sure that she was one hundred percent sincere by telling me that I was a great friend. A few days later, the words spoken that night were forgotten. We continued to laugh at secret jokes, nod at secret glances, and cry secret tears, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t the same laugh, nod, or tears anymore.

Around 3 years ago…

Her name was Maria (also, not her real name). She was different. We barely had anything in common. Our family backgrounds are so different that the sharp color contrasts in Caravaggio paintings pale in comparison. The extent of our similarity was that we attended the same college and that we knew some of the same people. She was one of those acquaintances that were best described as “a friend of a friend’s.” We were introduced once and perhaps attended the same social gatherings during my freshman year. It took a while before we started saying hi to each other when we crossed paths. We didn’t have a single class together so these intersections were few and far in between. However, as my college life evolved, so did my niche of friends. The people we both knew eventually became the friends that I spent most of my time with, and therefore she became someone who I saw often. Slowly but surely our familiarity with each other grew. We used to be the only two in our assortment of friends that would smoke Lucky Strike Menthols. We’d share a pack of Luckies almost everyday and our breaks consistently involved the two of us smoking instead of eating (it was much cheaper as a hunger suppressant then than it is now). But our relationship was not only about smoking. She had always come to me for advice. Always asked for what I thought about things, asked me what she should do in certain situations. Perhaps it was something about the way I talked that soothed her. She listened to what I had to say, and, for the most part, acted accordingly. The bulk of what she asked me about was how to interpret the men in her life. Being that she was, by this time, a very good friend, and being that she was, and still is, one of the most beautiful women I have ever come to know, I was more than happy to oblige.

Maria talked to me about everything. Sometimes I laughed, sometimes I cringed, and sometimes I was just plain embarrassed. Soon enough, however, I realized that she didn’t have much luck in men. The men she tended to get involved with were ones that either weren’t serious, or men that didn’t now exactly what it is they want with her. So I consoled her, I wiped her tears away, I made her laugh, I made her smile. During one of these conversations (or several conversations), she asked me why I was always there for her. I said something to the effect of: “I can’t stand to see you cry.” It was true, I couldn’t. She was a wonderful and generous woman that unequivocally deserved the full-hearted love and care of man that will not and cannot hurt her. Then she said one of the most remarkable things I’ve ever heard: “Why do I keep meeting the wrong guy? Why couldn’t they be more like you?” I was taken aback. After a few seconds I decided to take a jab at fate and managed to say something like “Well I’m here aren’t I?” It probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever said but once it leaves your mouth, it’s out there. She said, “It can’t be you because you’re too good for me. You’re such a good friend; I don’t want to ruin it like that.” Perhaps the conversation didn’t exactly go like this. In fact this could be a combination of a series of conversations we’ve had about the subject. But I was fortunate. My little jab at fate didn’t turn her away from me. If it did anything to our relationship, it made it stronger. She was happy with that and that’s what mattered, even though inside, I was empty as I could ever be.

***

Andrea and Maria weren’t the only ones that could never see past “friends” when it came to me. I could list a few more names but Andrea and Maria were the most significant of these by far. Individually, they are women that I can conceivably settle down with. That, in itself, is saying something about how serious they were for me. Sure, I was in college when I met them but that doesn’t make it null and void. In fact, it’s in college when you learn to feel these things, at least I think so. But the fact of the matter is, I wasn’t him. What was so different about me? Is it because I’m not somebody who might be asked to model for the J. Crew catalogue? Is it because I’m not a surfer, DJ, artist, or whatever stereotype it is that stereotyped women fall for? Is it because I drop everything whenever I thought they were in trouble or needed my shoulder. Is it because I care? I don’t know, I can’t answer that. Only they can, and they care way too much about me to ever let me know the truth. The deal is this: they both wanted what I was; a decent (if not good) guy who’d listen, love, and care but they didn’t want me, specifically. Almost 5 years ago, I loved Andrea. Around 3 years ago, I loved Maria. They too loved me, but not like that.

I would like to think that some of you who are reading this might be thinking that I should just forget about them, that it’s their loss and that I should move on. I appreciate it, really, I do. And for the most part, I have moved on. I’ve dated other people; I’ve even taken a shot at a real “relationship” with someone who I thought I really loved. But there’s one thing that lingers inside my heart (or hypothalamus) that I have no answers for.

I have, over the course of almost 5 years, built strong and lasting relationships with both Andrea and Maria. They are, at least now, good as kin to me, as much as any of my closest and dearest friends would be. However, just as strong as my relationship is with these two, I share almost (but not quite) the same amount of regret over it. The relationships I have with both Andrea and Maria are ones that I profoundly and genuinely treasure but they’re relationships that I had not originally wanted. I could never tell them this because it would hurt them, and I can’t stand for that. But because I can’t stand to see them hurt, I’d rather be the one in pain. It’s rough. And it’s tough. Why? Well because it’s the kind of hurt that doesn’t go away; the kind of chronic pain that doesn’t immobilize you but is sore nonetheless; the kind of wound that isn’t lethal but injures your soul. With the risk of sounding ultra self-seeking, I wanted something else. I needed something else. How does one live in constant and simultaneous love and regret for someone. I don’t know. But I’m alive aren’t I? Or at least I think so. Nevertheless, I can’t burn the bridges I’ve made with Andrea and Maria. I can’t turn my backs on friends, especially the kinds of friends Andrea and Maria are. I can do that because it would go against the very simple morals and values that I live by and if I, even for just a little bit, lose sight of that, I’d lose everything.