Now I know.
I was in love with you for the better part of the last few years. You were, are, a great friend of mine. We're close.
I finally told you after an event made me realize how short life is; I finally told you after years of wanting to, of never doing it, of everyone knowing but you.
You pretended it never happened.
I don't think you'll ever know how much that hurt me. I didn't want anything from you; I simply needed to lessen the burden, I need for you to know, I needed for you to realize just how much I cared for you. That's all. And I think I scared you, I think you thought that I wanted to be with you or that I expected something. I didn't. But you changed; our friendship changed, and that killed me.
We're still friends, but there aren't many days that go by where I don't cringe from the memory of me me getting in the car and driving away with a mutual friend, hyperventilating because you couldn't have made it more clear that you would have rathered be anywhere else in the world at that moment than there, with me and my secret.
My true secret is, you damaged me even more that day, and you didn't mean to. I will never tell anyone else I love them again, ever.
Because of you.