For a few moments every week, I allow myself the luxury of slipping into my make-believe world where you and I can pretend that the rest of the world ceases to exist, where I can pretend you are only mine. It might have just been a candid conversation for you when you told me how exactly you felt about me. But it tossed me onto a whole new plane of thought and imagination. Yes, it broke the illusion of platonic love with the opposite sex. Yes, it took away from the innocence of our friendship. And yet, it made me feel terribly good about myself. It felt good to know that I was loved and that I was worthy of being loved. It restored my almost depleted self-confidence levels and the ever-so fragile sense of the self. The constant attention from you and the memory of your words gave me a new-found strength to move forward.

But this euphoria is also accompanied with a sense of regret. Had I totally lost my chance of finding true love while I was dreaming of it with someone else? Today neither of us is terribly unhappy with our lives.  We both made our choices and shouldn’t have much reason to complain. But I still find myself getting angry, with a hint of sadness. I do not who I am angry at more – myself for being blind, selfish and inconsiderate or you for being honest with me. I saw a Mr. Perfect in you long before you told me what you felt. But in my mind, you were always unavailable. I would have walked away from a hurtful relationship and thrown myself at you with more alacrity than you think. But the fear of being branded restrained me.

I tell myself to be the bigger person and let go. The consciousness of your love should be adequate to keep me afloat. I have nothing against your partner – no streaks of jealousy, malice or bitterness. Yet, the overpowering sense of regret, and the subsequent ever-consuming feeling of guilt over my love for a married man, renders me numb negating every other feeling I could possibly ever experience or perceive.

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