I remember that song we made together in high school. It was sweet and simple and so opposite our then-rebellious attitudes, to the point where I joked that I was going to vomit rainbows and shit out some skittles. 

I remember sitting down at the piano with the melody in my mind, thinking to myself that if I never play it out I will regret an entire lifetime. My hands were moving almost automatically, really, like there was some kind of invisible force controlling them, telling me what to do and which chord to play and, just, how to play the song.

You asked me, afterward, if it was a love song. I asked why you would think that. You told me I was smiling so wide it almost ripped my face in half. 

When I was in high school, I didn't have the answer to your first question, instead choosing to stutter my way out of your scrutiny. 

Now, I do. 

Yes, it was a love song. Take your chances and guess who it was— is for.

See, if I were a tragic character, if I'm even a character at all, my hamartia would be love.

I love you, Jack Merridew. 

It wasn't very surprising. We were dating back then, we told each other that we loved each other all the time. 

Well, whatever it was back then, it wasn't love. At least not the kind that I felt— am still feeling.

That's why I didn't use past tense when I wrote "I love you".

I never put words into my song, never gave it a name, never even let anyone else listen to it. In my head, it was our thing, something so private that only happened when the both of us were present. The song was just for us.

Until it wasn't.

You weren't serious when you dated me, always had your eyes somewhere else. Even though we were an item, I still felt like your best friend. The best friend who you kissed, who gave you a blowjob that one night at the parking lot, who loves you, but who you never love back.

Yeah, I'm pathetic like that. 

You know the end of this story, don't you? I broke up with you, voluntarily. It was quick, too quick, but so painfully us that it still hurt until today.

(And in case you're fuzzy on the details, here is the series of events in my perspective:

1. I felt like your best friend even though we were dating.
2. I told you I thought we would be better off just being friends.
3. You agreed.
4. We broke up.)

We stayed friends since then, and will probably remain friends until the end. I told, and still, am telling myself that it's better this way. You weren't constricted anymore (unless the standards of society counted, and it never did, to you), and I get to move back into my brooding corner next to my piano. 

Who would've guessed I was correct, right?

I always knew you had a thing for blondes, didn't know why you couldn't have just chosen one out of the array that your father practically put in a line for you. But then I saw him, and I understood.

It wasn't something out of bitter self-deprecation that I found myself comparing him to me, or maybe it was, but I'll spare you the cause of my moodiness by saying that yes, I am less than him, yes, you two deserve each other, and yes, I completely comprehend why you thought of a wedding the moment you saw that black suit. 

Here's the thing. A few months after I compared myself to Ralph, I received your wedding invitation.

Or, and this is a more candid version of what actually happened, you asked me to 1. Threaten some pastor to give you his church for one day as a wedding venue, 2. Play the piano at said wedding, and 3. Bake you a wedding cake. All to which I agreed. Like a dumbass.

When I tried to think of ways to make that pastor hand over the church, I tried not to think of what would happen if it were me and you instead.

(I failed and started fantasizing about us being a badass couple, of course.)

When I was baking your cake, I almost wanted to give up and eat the goddamned thing all by myself.

(But then I thought about how mad you would be, and never thought of eating the cake again.)

Simon once told me, the poetic little shit, to appreciate the present and look toward the future. Leave the past behind, as it is only unnecessary weight. But, after that, he ate all of my cat's cookies without knowing they were for cats, so I'm not sure if he was even listening to himself. 

I guess my point is that I'm still trying to get over you. Maybe I never will, but nothing will stop me from trying, right?

To conclude this mess, I know I've always been bad with words, and if you're laughing at this point then yeah, I completely expect that. But I love you as a friend and a best friend and a brother, and as so much more than that, and you love Ralph and will forever love him and that, I just can't prevent. 

So I hope you remember our song from all those years ago, even if it's not ours anymore, because when I play the piano at your wedding, that is what you will hear. 

Not to remind you of my bitter feelings, but to remind you that we had a past together, and now, finally, it is time for me to let it go.

I guess Simon did make sense after all, despite all those cat cookies he digested. 

Sincerely,

Your friend, 

Roger.

P/S: I know you're probably reading this when going through your wedding gifts and pretending to like all the weird shit people give you, but I'm going to bombard you with my emotional bullshit anyway, else I'll implode and die and you'll have to attend my funeral before having hot sex with your husband.

...

This goes with the two wedding one-shots.