“You are a rare bird, the kind I wouldn’t even mind writing in the margins of my books.” -Ani DiFranco

I’m in love with my best friend. Oh…and she lives with her boyfriend of two years.

No, I’m not writing this for pity or even advice necessarily. I just feel like I can vent to you guys. So here it goes:

I met her back in March when I moved into my new apartment downtown. She worked in a little coffee shop, I took notice of her the first time I walked through the door. She jokes with me now, telling me that she thought I would order an iced chai that first time but was surprised when I asked for an iced coffee, black. Round-framed glasses and blonde hair, thrown on top of her head in a messy bun. Lady daydream.

I asked her out one morning after I ordered my usually iced coffee and croissant. I wrote my number down on my receipt. We met for drinks at a local tavern and talked for hours. She didn’t know I was gay, I didn’t know she was in the process of moving in with her boyfriend. “I mean…I think you’re really cute.” “No, you’re cute.”

Our friendship was natural and I couldn’t get enough of her presence. She has the ability to make me laugh uncontrollably over everything and nothing at all.

We confessed our love for each other one night last week. The buzz of alcohol and the way the candle light was hitting her face, it was the way that made me wish I had my camera by my side.

She doesn’t know how she feels about her situation anymore. A trip back home should clear her head, she says. But I know she won’t leave him for me, at least not for awhile. But I can dream, right?

For now, I’m content with our innocent embraces. The way our arms brush up against each other at house shows or the way I catch you looking at me when you’re pretending to be interested in a strangers conversation.

Love is a strange thing.