He admitted, for the first time in our long friendship, that he had once been in love.

“What was it like?” I asked him.

He closed his eyes and hesitated. When he opened them again, it was as though he was seeing something different. Like he was watching the past play out right there in my kitchen. Drawing a breath, he spoke.

“It was like the movies but better. It was the stuff both dreams and nightmares are made of, and more. It was calling them in the middle of the night and not having to wonder whether or not they would answer. It was knowing that they wouldn’t judge you for making a mistake. Instead, they would help you tape together the ripped pages. It was the ache left behind when they went away and the feeling of being safe when we were tangled up again, trapped in a hug, thrown into a kiss.”

He paused. I wondered if I had happened across it, the feeling he told me about.

“It was magic and purity and a promise. We weren’t anywhere near perfect. We fought our own demons and rode waves that neither of us could predict, but we handled it. We made it.”

He faltered before continuing. “Until we didn’t. We were outside all boxes, and no silly timeframes existed. And that was the problem. They had to. This is the real world - in this place, love is good for absolutely nothing.”

Shaking my head, I rose from my chair. Softly, slowly, words left my lips.

“What does my love for you amount to?”