It was a sunny Friday afternoon in April when I saw you for the very first time. You were riding a bycicle, and Mom told me: “Look, sweetie, that’s Spike. He lives next door, his parents are very nice people. Spike is the same age as you. Maybe the two of you will become friends?” She tried to caress my hair, but I avoided her touch. I knew that she did her best to make things easier for me, but as an eleven year old girl I couldn’t (or I didn’t want to) understand why we had to move from L.A to this backwater Sunnydale, solely because Dad had lost his job.
You waved to me with a big gin on your face. Spike... What a stupid name, I thought, while you came nearer.
“Can I help you with this?” You pointed at the packing cases and I turned away from you, hissing: “No, just leave me alone!”
You shrugged you shoulders, and I heard Mom say: “Buffy, that was very rude of you!”, but I didn’t care.
During my first weeks in Sunnydale I never missed the opportunity to be mean to you, and I thought you’d pay me out in your own coin.
But you didn’t.
Do you remember when you greeted me at school and I pretended that I hadn’t noticed it?
I was sure you’d avoid me the next time.
But you didn’t.
You’ve always been kind and patient with me, and over the years we became friends.
When I was fifteen, I noticed for the first time that there was a dreamy expression on your face whenever you looked at me. I didn’t pay much attention on it, although in a tiny hidden corner of my heart I admitted to myself that I felt flattered.
I wasn’t keen on becoming your girlfriend or something, I just wanted you to be my friend, my protector, my entertainer.
It was the Christmas day when you worked up the courage to tell me that you loved me. I remember every single word you said, every gesture, down to the smallest detail.
You took my hand and caressed the back of it with your thumb, while you whispered: “God, Buffy, I love you. Been in love with you since I was eleven years old.”
You gave me the present you had bought for me, and without opening the small box, I knew that you had spent all your money for the silvery pendant I had seen in a shop windows a few weeks ago. It was a heart adorned with beautiful gems.
I thanked you without looking you in the eyes, suddenly ashamed of my behaviour through the years of our childhood.
I wasn’t in love with you, but I desperately needed your friendship.
I thought you’d lose interest in me if I made clear that I didn’t have any romantic feelings for you.
But you didn’t.
I began to date a guy I had met in our favourite club, the Bronze. Angel was my first boyfriend, and I thought you’d be mad at me because I spent much more time with Angel than with you.
But you didn’t.
You comforted me whenever Angel made me cry with his lies, and you were there for me when I finally dropped him.
You asked me to come to the prom with you, and I accepted. I wanted Angel to be jealous, and you knew that, but you didn’t complain.
I thought you’d break off our friendship because I used you to get him back.
But you didn’t.
Then I saw you dancing with a girl, Drusilla, and I noticed the way she looked at you. It was obvious that she was keen on you, but before she could do or say anything to seduce you, I asked you to walk me home.
I didn’t want you... but I didn’t want any other girl to be with you neither.
I knew that I was unfair and that I wasn’t worthy of your friendship, but I just couldn’t help it.
I thought you’d sooner or later become aware of my rudeness.
But you didn’t.
The year after we graduated from high school, I moved to San Francisco, while you stayed in Sunnydale.
You wrote to me twice weekly, and although I fought against it, I realized that I was missing you so badly that it hurt.
I called you every Friday evening, listening to you with my eyes closed, wondering why I hadn’t noticed that soft, pleasing tone in your voice earlier.
I told you that I was homesick and that I missed my friends, my parents... even this stupid small town.
I thought you’d laugh at me.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you sent me a packet with Mr. Gordo, my favorite stuffed animal when I was eleven.
I found Mr. Gordo on your attic. He’s old and grubby, but I hope that he will remind you of the days when you were a child... you used to press him against your body when you were sad and lonely, and it always made you feel better. I know it’s no big deal... but it’s a tiny piece of home.
I felt the tears running down my cheeks. I didn’t even know that you remembered Mr. Gordo.
When I called you later that day, I thanked you for the packet, but in fact I thanked you for everything... for being my friend, for knowing me better than anyone else...for loving me.
I found myself looking at photos of you every single day, and suddenly I realized that I've never actually seen you. But now I saw your blue eyes, so dark they almost seemed black. I saw your face, which looked like it was chiseled out of marble, and I wondered why I had never bothered having a closer look on you.
It was a cold December evening when I realized that I was wearing your favourite black “Sex Pistols” t- shirt you had given me the day of my departure to San Francisco. And while I listened to your voice on the phone, I became aware that I was inhaling the weak smell of your skin which was still on the shirt.
“Buffy? You okay?” you asked, noticing that I had fallen silent for a moment.
I took a deep breath and heard myself saying:
“Spike...Haven’t you ever thought you weren’t hungry, and then... all of a sudden... you taste something, or smell something you love, and you realize that you’re starving? Absolutely starving?”
I heard your heavy breathing, but you didn’t answer.
It wasn’t necessary... you had understood that it was my way to tell you that I loved you.
You had waited so long to hear these words from me, and there were a lot of other things I wanted you to know. Things I should have said ealier, because deep in my heart I knew that I was loving you for ages, but I was too blind to see it.
You planned to visit me the next weekend, but then you had this terrible accident.
You have taught me the importance of telling the ones we love what we feel, and there were a bunch of things I wanted to tell you about my feelings.
I thought you’d survive.
But you didn’t.
END
Author's Chapter Notes:
I was inspired by a short story I read ages ago, but I don't remember the title. It's about the same topic... telling the ones we love what we feel, because one day it could be too late...
oh, and btw, I'm not a native speaker.
oh, and btw, I'm not a native speaker.