Mine mine mine mine mine. It is all mine. I was here at the vanguard, and every time the prodigal returns, I am ecstatic to see more and more blossom. Oakland is here, and it welcomes us, and it is grateful for our faith, and it returns it in kind.
The friend said he had never heard you so excited about a man. As he relayed this key information, you nearly fell off your barstool, remembering a day six years prior, when you and he were both fresher, thinner, less happy, and he had said the same words about your former.
And you Nostradamus with the best of them, wondering when he will next tell you this. When will your friend say these words to you again? When will he look both empathetic and jubilant, overcome with his love for you and your nascent sentiments? How many times will you excite your friends with your very tenuous, perhaps-maybe-possible-but-most-likely-not pseudo-relationship, and how many times will your excitement demand their care, only to disappoint them? Even if they don’t know it, that he will again say “i have never see you so happy” will, again, in your weakened state, just mean “god he sucked.” As if you don’t feel bad enough for spending a quarter of your life egging another on; now you have others’ unjustified expectations on your head, and hope, you don’t know how the other half lives.