Philia

10-18-11

Fiction-y thing.
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She'd told him lots of things in the time they'd know each other. He was one of the few people who'd seen her cry, and had once threatened to violently harm anyone who ever made her cry like that again. They shared in-jokes that only seven people in the entire world knew, laughing at the remembrance of sunshine and the sound of the sea. He could tease her almost mercilessly since she knew he meant it kindly, and sometimes his jokes and his stories held truth behind them, truth that needed to be heard.  If this were chemistry class, she could call him a catalyst. She'd never met anyone like him before, that was for sure. She took his suggestions seriously because she trusted his opinion, trusted him--and it was a trust that had been earned, that hadn't been granted lightly.

She believed that he trusted her as well. He'd told her things that she wasn't quite sure had been told to many other people. Granted, there was a risk that he told everyone such things, but she didn't really think so. He'd been honest with her about his future plans, about the girl who'd hurt him (not like she hadn't seen it coming, but some things have to happen, unfortunately). They'd shared ideas and stories and built meanings out of nothings and wrote and draw and supported one another. They were friends.

She had told him lots of things, but probably was never going to tell him what she'd been wondering recently. Nope. Much easier--safer, too--to stay his friend, to enjoy his presence, his conversation, than to risk possibly everything and possibly get back absolutely nothing. Better to keep it how it is instead of wasting times on what might bes.

They were friends, and she was going to leave it at that.
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