Of course he would not say it. How could he? He was the best friend. In a situation that came straight out of a movie, he knew how these things ended: in a tight hug, a kiss on the forehead, and a gentle, albeit final, rejection. Many times, he had wanted to throw caution to the wind, damn all consequences, and just put in out in the open, as though it were some dark secret that needed to be exposed. But he couldn't. He just couldn't bring himself to do it. Indeed, perhaps the most difficult things to say are the most honest, and honesty, especially in matters such as these, was often a very delicate affair.

From the years that he had known her, since they had met in college, the relationship was always jovial and light. And he had wanted it that way. Or perhaps more precisely, he had no other choice— because by the time he had realized that he had wanted so much more from their relationship, she had settled on giving him exactly what they had: a friendship.

He himself didn't understand how it happened. It's just that he woke up one day and found himself loving her, that way. It was a quiet, growing knowledge of a special attraction, yes, but more importantly, an overriding desire to do things that made her happy. His friends called it over-extending, by which they meant to mean, going out of his way to do small things which made her smile; unnecessary things, but he enjoyed it, nonetheless. And before he knew it, he was no longer over-extending. It had become a habit, an impulse, a reflex, so that to him, the knowledge that “I love her,” became a mere statement of fact, a description of what simply was, no different than “the sky is blue,” or that “fire burns.”

But he could not tell her this, because he knew that he was exactly what he was, and she was exactly what she was. They were universes apart, a cosmic joke that didn't quite make sense. He was a successful professional, she was a print-ad model. He was stiff and uptight, she was glamorous and out-going. Many times, they have tried to explain how two seemingly opposite persons could become such good friends. And every time, through much laughter and reminiscences, they always arrived at the same answer: that they had met each other when they were still themselves, before the trappings of career, success and fame came to complicate many things.

It wasn't so bad, he thought. At least he knew that he had a special connection that many of her suitors only dream of approximating. More than once, in fact, he had been asked why it was that they were not together. Some even said that he was probably gay.

No, he was not gay. He was just the best friend.

And so one evening, over dinner, like so many other dinners they had gone to together, she said, “I can't understand how people who hardly know me at all can say that they care for me, that they love me, even. It's absurd!”

“Are your even surprised?” he asked, giving her an incredulous look. “I mean, it seems that every other night, you're out at Fiama, or somewhere.”

She gave out a hearty laugh! “Fiama? Good grief, that's so five minutes ago!”

“Whatever. You know what I mean.”

“God," she mumbled to herself as she took a sip of water, getting back to what she was saying. “I swear, men are so shallow!” Before she was finished with her sentence, however, her thoughts overtook her, and she launched into another story: “Like this guy, he'd come over to the agency, he'd bring food and stuff. He's a nice guy, really. But he's really weird.”

“Weird?”

“Yeah, he sends me e-mails saying that he feels that we have a special connection, and they he really cares a lot for me. . . . yada, yada, yada." She started rolling her eyes.

“Well, that's 'cause you're such a flirt,” he said to her flatly.

“I am not,” she protested, pointing a fork at him.

“Well, he wouldn't say these things if you didn't give him reason to,” he said, half-teasing. He was beyond being jealous. He'd heard the story before. He knew how the game with her went.

“That isn't the point,” she said. “The point is that they really don't have any basis! At all!" She gave him a thoughtful pause. “What is it that you used to tell me?”

“Which one?” he asked.

“That time, I even remember when you said it,” she shook her heard, trying hard to remember. “That we only know that which we love, and that we only love that which we know? Or something like that.”

“Yes, and your point being?”

“That these guys. . . . They don't even know me! How can they say all these things to me! I end up thinking that the reason why they want to be friends with me is because they have some sort of agenda! Just riles me, I guess.”

“Well, maybe next time, don't give them reason to think that you're open to their agendas,” he said, trying to be his dry, acerbic self. “But yes, you said it correctly: You can only know that which you love.”

“And you can only love that which you know, yes?"

“You learn well, my padowan,” he replied, smiling. But in his head, what he really wanted to say was, “So many people tell you that they love you. And yet that one person who really knows you best, the one person who really loves you, can't even come out and say it. . . .”

He drove her home that evening, as he would, after these monthly dinners. She sat quietly beside her in the car, the cabin cool from the air conditioning, the radio playing his favorite CD:

Maybe that's all that we need is to meet in the middle of impossibility
Standing at opposite poles, equal partners in a mystery.
We're standing at opposite poles, equal partners in a mystery.

“Hey,” he said, as they stopped at a stop-light. “I'm glad we're friends.” He looked at her and smiled.

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.” She smiled back. And they returned to their comfortable silence.

He gave out a quiet sigh, at last, and thought: “A cosmic joke, indeed. But in my alternate universe, it would be different, because it would be you and I. And I wouldn't be afraid, because I would have nothing to lose. Indeed, in my alternate universe, the laws of physics break down: opposing poles meet, you would love me, that way. And we'd live happily ever after.”