Giovanna Truong
His eyes are different colors. One is brown, the other a mix of amber and turquoise. It’s the thing everyone notices when they meet him. “Is he the one with the fancy eyes?” people would ask when I talked about my best friend. It was these impossible eyes that became the object of my obsession for two years. I could draw them down to the slightest line.
I hadn’t noticed them when we first became friends, but one day in tenth grade, my attention shifted from whatever he was saying to his eyes. He suddenly became just as complicated as his eyes — confusing, conflicting, pretty. I tried not to think about this surprising new feeling, but over the next few weeks it began to consume me until I realized the precarious position I was in: I was in love with my best friend.
We’d been friends since ninth grade, brought together by several shared classes and interests. We both acted in the school plays and sat next to each other in any classes we had together. I was a quiet, bookish and creative student, he was similar but more extroverted. I think he delighted in our friendship because of all the things his other friends couldn’t relate to. He enjoyed our conversations about niche historical figures or theater or indie songs he’d introduce me to. We shared in the quiet sensitivity with which we both approached the world, a vulnerability that not many others at our all-boys school displayed.
It was after one of our play rehearsals that I noticed his eyes and felt my first pang of infatuation. It was the first time I was able to identify my feelings of attraction for what they were. Until that point, I’d thought maybe I hadn’t met the right girl or maybe having a crush wasn’t as noticeable and normal as everyone made it seem. It was at that moment that I quietly, confidently confirmed my sexuality. Over the next few months, everything became much clearer. I came out to my closest friends and learned a great deal about myself.
Casting a shadow over this self-discovery was the slow development of a consuming, impossible love. I knew he was straight. He told me all about the girls he liked but not the way most boys did at that age. Not with the typical macho objectification but rather in sweet and caring declarations of interest. As my feelings developed, these conversations soon became the most painful part of our friendship. I was able to practice my acting skills as I listened to his laments about another girl whom he was too shy to talk to, always listening with eager ears, pretending my heart wasn’t breaking with each word. I searched for signs that maybe he could be into boys. My mind turned over every conversation, every movement, trying to find some hints of queerness. I knew deep down it was pointless.
He was the first boy I came out to. Sat criss-crossed under a desk so my family couldn’t hear me, I FaceTimed him, and after some rambling, I declared that I liked guys. I told him it was a joke the next day, but we both knew it wasn’t. Nothing changed. He knew this was something important to me, and he made it his goal to ensure I felt as comfortable as possible going forward. When our other friends made homophobic comments, he’d be quick to call them out. Whenever he worried someone upset me, he’d check in and right it. He also didn’t fear physical intimacy with me, something I feared coming out would frighten him away from. I was never a very physical person, but he was, often throwing a casual arm over my shoulder or hugging me when it felt apt. These moments — once lovely displays of friendship — began to feed into my emotional turmoil.
I can vividly recall the night he taught me how to play guitar. We were having a sleepover after a party and sitting in his basement as the haze of alcohol wore off. It was the time of night when things begin to quiet and everything feels a little too real. In that moment, sitting side by side with his arms around mine guiding my hands to the strings, him talking so passionately about the instrument he loved and hoping I could share in that love, I knew that what I felt was more than just a crush. When he turned the lights out and I settled into the guest bed, I stayed awake all night wondering and mourning, mourning the perfect relationship that we could’ve had in another life, mourning the perfect friendship that would have existed if I weren’t the way I was.
I wanted to have an excuse to tell him, like getting drunk at a party one day and letting it all spill. The confession inside of me began to perpetually occupy my thoughts. At rehearsals, I’d cry hidden in the wings, and at school I found ways to avoid seeing him. I had so many things I wanted to say to him. I knew I’d be ruining everything we’d built as friends, and I knew he couldn’t feel the same way. Nevertheless, I had a monologue prepared at all times, a confession, an apology, a plea. I went through so many different ways of telling him, and they all ended with an “I’m sorry I love you.” Would it be selfish to tell him this? I felt the world was cruel. I felt he was cruel. How could he not know how I felt? How come he had to be so kind all the time?
We got into our first fight at the start of that summer, when everything was green and candlelit and slightly tainted by the smell of bug spray. We spent the evening enjoying games of pong and chandelier, the ten or so of us cultivating a joyfully intimate feeling. One that motivated him to scoop me up into his arms and carry me across the yard after I beat him in a round of flip cup. As soon as he put me down amidst everyone’s laughter I found myself descending out of a joyful buzz and into a saddened stupor.
Eventually I slumped against the yard fence next to my girl best friend, I launched into a drunken diatribe about my situation. I went over the instances that confused me, the things in my head that I clung onto thinking maybe he’s not totally straight. All the while I watched him play soccer against the party host, a friend of mine who he was meeting for the first time. I could tell he was flirting with her: I could see the nerves, the stolen glances and the inexplicable energy that comes with an emerging interest. My thoughts evolved from self-pity to anger. I leapt up and joined their game. He was a pretty good soccer player, but the girl was far better. He wanted to impress her and I was determined to stop that. I aggressively checked him and stole the ball whenever I could. His flirtatious game was interrupted as I challenged him. When he fought back and tried to regain control of the ball, I’d jokingly say “fuck off,” a phrase I repeated more and more throughout the game taking on a crueler tone each time. The girl, who was now an observer of our battle, laughed at his plight and the strange tension arising. As she wandered off he pulled me aside.
“You only want to play with her?” I asked with a scoff.
“Yes actually I do.” We were silent. “So just stop whatever you’re doing and leave me alone.”
My apology text later that night was met with an “it’s fine.”
We didn’t talk the next day at school. Or the rest of the week.
The worst part about unrequited love is the consuming shame. Here I was, adhering to the ignorant stereotype that gay guys would be attracted to their straight friends. When I caught myself getting lost in thought about him, I felt myself blanketed by guilt. For all the self-pity that comes with unrequited love, there too is a great deal of shame. Especially if it’s your friend, a sense that you’re violating their trust and the sanctity of your friendship.
I saw very little of him the rest of that summer. I went away for a summer program, and by the time I returned, the space had righted our conflict. My feelings hadn’t gone away, but as we both matured, they did slowly fade. Over the next year, I experienced all the same pangs of unrequited love, but with each week, they felt less and less like world-ending blows. By the time we reached grade 12, I returned to school, and realized I finally didn’t feel anything.
I wish I could go back and tell my younger self that it would pass, that one day the feelings would fade into something quieter and bearable. He wouldn’t understand, weighed down by the all-consuming weight of teenage desire. I’ve come to realize how special our friendship truly was — and still is. Unlike any of his other friends, I was a guy who he felt comfortable being fully present and sensitive with. Even though it wasn’t in the way I wished for at the time, he did have a very evident care and love for me. The love of true friendship — as cheesy as that sounds.
Unrequited love doesn’t have to destroy you. Any instance of love is beautiful on its own, even if it’s never returned. It’s a reflection of feelings far greater than anything we can control. I believe all love shapes us into the people we’re meant to be. And I’m grateful for that. There’s a little piece of me that will always be sixteen, sitting in that basement, knowing I’m in love with that boy and his mismatched eyes.