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Gaya

I don't like my friend's boyfriend. At least, that's what I've been telling myself. He's not a bad person. That's the annoying part. If he were terrible, this would be so much easier. If he cheated on her, spoke to her badly, embarrassed her in public, anything, I could point at him and say, See? This is why I don't like him, but he hasn't really done anything. He's actually quite nice, and my friend is happy. Which, unfortunately, is starting to piss me off.

When my friend first started dating Chidi, I was excited. She had been single for a while and I had watched her go through enough terrible men to qualify for a Netflix documentary. So when she called me after their first date, sounding like she was trying very hard not to sound excited, I already knew.

“How was it?” “It was fine.” “Just fine?” “Okay, it was really good.”

I screamed, and she laughed. Then she spent the next forty minutes telling me everything he had said, what he was wearing, where they went and how he remembered something she had mentioned weeks earlier. I was happy for her. I genuinely was.

Then they started dating properly, and slowly, I started seeing less of my friend. At first, it was little things. She couldn't come for dinner because she was seeing him.&nbsp;She couldn't spend Saturday with me because they had plans.&nbsp;She'd call me and say, “Babe, I'll call you back,” and then disappear for three hours. Normal relationship things. I understood.

Until one Saturday when we had plans we'd made almost two weeks before. I was already dressed when she called. “Babe, I'm so sorry.” I knew immediately. “What's wrong?” “Chidi is not feeling well. I need to go check up on him”

There was a small silence. Then I said, “Oh. Okay.” “Are you angry?” “No!”

I wasn't exactly angry. I was just annoyed that I had spent forty minutes deciding what to wear for an outing that was now cancelled because somebody's son had suddenly developed plans.

“Let's do next weekend,” she said. “Sure.” We hung up.

I went back to my room, changed into my pyjamas, and ordered food. Twenty minutes later, she sent me a message saying they were headed to the hospital. I should have cared a bit about his health but I didn't. I just hissed and locked my phone. That was when I first thought, Okay. Maybe I actually don't like this man.

The funny thing is, before Chidi, my friend told me everything. Everything. If she had an argument with her boss, I knew.&nbsp; If she was considering changing jobs, I knew.&nbsp; If she liked a man, I knew before the man knew.

I was the person she called when she didn't know what to do and I liked it. I&nbsp;liked being the person who knew things. I liked being needed. Then one day she called me and told me she had accepted a new job. I screamed. “You didn't even tell me you were going to accept it!” She laughed. “I've been thinking about it for weeks.” “And you didn't tell me?” “I wanted to make the decision myself.”

I laughed too, but something inside me shifted. She had made a big decision without asking me, and the worst part was that she was right. She was an adult. She didn't need to run every decision by me. I was proud of her, but I also went home and realised I missed the version of our friendship where she needed me a little more.

I felt terrible for that. Then I got over it, or so I thought.

My friend has always been pretty, but last year she had a proper glow-up. New hair. New clothes. She lost some weight. Started going to the gym. Started taking pictures differently. Suddenly, everywhere we went, people noticed her.

The first few times, I found it funny. One evening, we were at a bar, and two guys walked over. One looked at me. The other looked at her. Then both of them started talking to her. I laughed about it.

I genuinely wasn't bothered until it kept happening again and again. At parties, at restaurants, at weddings, even at someone's birthday dinner where I was sitting right beside her. Men would come over and somehow she became the centre of the conversation.

I started joking that I needed to stop going out with her. She thought I was being funny. I thought I was being funny too. Until one night, a guy I actually liked spent the entire evening talking to her. At some point, he asked for her number. She looked at me to ask if it was alright, and I smiled and nodded. She gave him her number. I smiled the whole time. Then I got home and was annoyed. At her, at him, at myself. Mostly myself.&nbsp;Because what exactly had she done?&nbsp;Nothing. She was just sitting there being pretty, and apparently that was enough to make me question my entire personality.

This one is the hardest to admit. I introduced her to something that has now become a huge part of her career.&nbsp;I was the one who sent her the first opportunity. She was scared to apply, so I convinced her. When she got it, I screamed louder than she did.

I helped her prepare. I gave her contacts. I encouraged her when she thought she wasn't good enough, and then she became very good at it. Very good, that people started noticing. Then came the opportunities. Then the money. Then the invitations.

One day she called me screaming because she had landed something huge.&nbsp;I screamed with her. We talked for almost an hour.&nbsp;When we hung up, I was smiling. Then, maybe ten minutes later, I started crying. I looked around my room and thought: So when exactly is my own life going to start moving like this?

That thought stayed with me. Then another one came. I put her on. I immediately felt horrible, because, no. I didn't put her on.&nbsp;I introduced her to something. She did the work. She made something out of it. She deserves everything she's getting. I know that, but knowing something and feeling something are apparently two completely different jobs.

I have been thinking about this for months now. I don't want my friend to fail. I don't want her relationship to end. I don't want her to become less attractive. I don't want her opportunities. I don't want her life. I just sometimes wish I had some of the things she has. And sometimes I wish I had them first.

Maybe that's jealousy, but I've always thought jealousy meant wanting someone else to lose. I don't want her to lose anything. If she called me crying tomorrow, I'd pick up. If someone hurt her, I'd be furious. If she got the biggest opportunity of her life, I'd probably be the first person screaming on the phone. So how can I be jealous of someone I genuinely want good things for?

Maybe I'm not jealous. Maybe I'm insecure. Maybe I'm competitive. Maybe I'm lonely. Maybe I'm just tired of feeling like everyone around me is moving forward while I'm standing in the same place.

Or maybe jealousy doesn't always mean I want what you have. Maybe sometimes it means I wish I had it too. Perhaps that's the part nobody talks about. We're very comfortable saying, “I'm so proud of my friend.” We're less comfortable saying, “I'm proud of her, but watching her win also made me feel terrible about myself.”

Both things can be true.&nbsp;At least, I think they can, but I could also just be finding very sophisticated ways to excuse being a bad friend.

Honestly, I don't know.&nbsp;I think I'm jealous of my friend, and I'm not sure I feel as bad about it as I thought I should.

Can you love your friend deeply and still feel jealous of her relationship, beauty, success and opportunities? One woman is trying to figure it out.

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