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Gaya

I have been in love with my best friend for three years. He doesn't know or maybe he does.

That is the problem. I have spent so much time trying to figure out whether he knows that sometimes I wonder if I've made myself obvious enough that the only person who doesn't know is me.

His name is Daniel, and if you asked him what I am to him, he would probably say, “My best friend.”

I always smile because what else am I supposed to do? I am not going to look at the man I've secretly been in love with for three years and say, Actually, Daniel, I would like to be promoted.

The worst part is that I don't even know when it happened. There was no dramatic moment. No one day where I woke up and realised I was in love. It was smaller than that. It was the first time something happened at work, and he was the first person I wanted to tell.

Then it became the person I called when I couldn't sleep. Then the person whose opinion I wanted before I made any big decision. Then I started noticing little things. The way he says my name when he's teasing me. The way he remembers things I told him months ago. The way he knows when I'm upset even when I'm pretending I'm fine, and then one day he hugged me goodbye, and I had that horrible realisation:

You can survive having a crush on someone. You can embarrass yourself for three weeks, stalk their Instagram, decide they're your soulmate because they liked your story, and eventually get over it, but falling in love with your best friend is different, because now there is something to lose, and I really, really don't want to lose him.

The funny thing is that everyone around us thinks something is going on. Our friends have been trying to marry us off for years. If we arrive somewhere together, someone will say, “Ah, the couple has arrived.”

We laugh. I laugh louder than everyone. He usually says, “Abeg, leave us,”and then he looks at me. Sometimes I wonder if he looks at me differently. This is how delusion starts.

One look becomes evidence. One late-night phone call becomes evidence. One “I miss you” becomes evidence. One time he held my hand while we were crossing the road has been sitting in my brain for eight months. He probably doesn't even remember it, but I do.

Whenever he likes someone, I'm usually the first person to hear about it, and I have to pretend I don't feel something inside me physically collapse. I always ask questions. “What is she like?” “Do you like her?” “Have you asked her out?”

I hate myself every time, but I ask because I want to know, and because some stupid part of me is always hoping he will eventually say: “Actually, I think I like you.”

He never does. Instead, he tells me about her, and I listen. I give him advice. I tell him when I think he's moving too fast. I tell him when I think a woman is clearly not interested. I once helped him choose between two shirts before he went on a date.

I wanted to scream. Instead, I said, “The blue one.”&nbsp;He wore the blue one. They dated for four months. I survived.

The worst thing is that he is affectionate with me. Not in an obviously romantic way. Just enough to keep me confused.&nbsp;

He calls me when he has had a terrible day. He sends me pictures of things that remind him of me. When he travels, he brings me something back. He knows my food order. He knows when I'm pretending to be okay.

Once, I was sick, and he came to my house with medication and food. He stayed until I fell asleep; nothing happened. He didn't try anything. He just sat beside my bed, complaining about traffic and telling me stupid stories until I felt better. I remember watching him from under the blanket and thinking: This is exactly why I'm in love with you, and then immediately thinking: Please don't ever find out.

Because what if he doesn't feel the same? What if I tell him and he looks at me differently afterwards? What if every stupid joke becomes awkward? What if every late-night call suddenly has a meaning? What if I lose the one person I don't know how to live without?

I would rather keep wondering. I think. There was one night, though. One night that still makes me wonder if maybe I'm not completely insane. We were sitting in his car after dropping some friends off. It was late. We were both tired. We were talking about relationships, as usual. He asked me what kind of man I wanted to marry.

I laughed and said, “Why?” He said, “Just answer.” So I did. I told him. Someone kind. Someone who makes me laugh. Someone I can talk to. Someone who knows me properly. Someone who makes me feel safe.He was quiet for a while. Then he said:

“I think you already have that.”

I laughed because I thought he was joking.&nbsp;He didn't laugh. I looked at him. He looked at me, and for about five seconds, I thought: This is it. This is the moment. This is where everything changes. Then his phone rang.

He picked it up. It was a woman. He answered, and I looked away. That was the end of my little movie. 

Sometimes I think he might love me, not necessarily romantically, but sometimes I think there is something there that neither of us has named. Other times, I think I have spent so long wanting him that I have turned every normal act of friendship into a sign. Maybe that's what love does. It makes you a terrible detective.&nbsp;You find evidence for whatever conclusion you desperately want.&nbsp;He could call me because he loves me, or because I'm his best friend. He could remember my favourite food because I'm special to him, or because he's a good friend.

He could look at me for three seconds longer than normal because he feels something, or because I am staring at him first. There is no way to know, and I'm not going to ask. At least, not now. Sometimes I imagine what would happen if I told him.

I imagine us laughing about it. I imagine him saying he has felt the same way for years. I imagine him kissing me. I imagine telling everyone that we were stupid for wasting so much time.

Then I imagine the other possibility. He goes quiet. He says he loves me, but not like that. He tells me he doesn't want to ruin our friendship, and suddenly every memory we have becomes embarrassing.

Every hug. Every late-night conversation. Every time I fell asleep beside him. Every time he told me I was beautiful. Everything becomes something I have to reinterpret.

I don't think I could survive that. So I keep my mouth shut.&nbsp;The funny thing is, I don't even know what I want him to do. Sometimes I want him to find out. Sometimes I pray he never does. Sometimes I want him to meet someone and be happy, even though I know I'll probably cry when it happens. Sometimes I want him to look at me one day and finally realise. And sometimes I think maybe this is all it will ever be.

Maybe I'll eventually meet someone else. Maybe I'll fall in love with someone who loves me openly and doesn't leave me analysing the meaning of a three-second stare. Maybe Daniel will become one of those people I look back on and think, God, I was so young, or maybe not. Maybe one day we'll be 40, sitting somewhere, laughing about how everyone always thought we were dating. Maybe I'll finally tell him. Maybe he'll laugh. Maybe he'll say:

“I thought you knew I felt the same way.”

And I'll probably kill him, but for now, he is still my best friend.&nbsp;He still calls me when something happens.&nbsp;I still know when something is wrong with him before he tells me. He still tells me about the women he likes, and I still listen.

I still laugh. I still give him advice. And I still love him.

I just don't tell him, because sometimes not knowing hurts less than finding out.

I could tell him how I feel and risk changing everything, or keep the friendship I already have. So far, I've chosen him, even if it means loving him quietly.

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