The afterburn is healing nicely...

Once upon a time I met a boy.

Not the most remarkable of beginnings, I know, and at the time it certainly didn't feel very remarkable. At most, it was pleasant, and pleasant is fine when you're still a kid, starting a new school and trying to figure out who you are, and what you're meant to do with all of your potential. But pleasant soon turned to comfortable, and comfortable to warm-and-fuzzy, and before I knew it the boy who had been a stranger, then a witty classmate, and then a dear friend was now stealing my breath away – causing my heart to race; sending shivers of anticipation down my spine.

It was terrifying, and intense, and oh-so exhilarating. It was simply delicious; he was simply delicious. He was fresh strawberries and cream, and warm summer nights, and an endless starry sky, and rain pattering down on the windshield of the car like on the many Friday evenings when we would just sit and talk our night away. He was the smell of autumn and bright red falling leaves, and fat snowflakes, and warm, chewy cookies. He was the lengthening days, and the lapping tides, and all the sad, slow, lovely songs on the radio, and the soft breeze that kissed my face. He was soft skin, and warm hands, and silky hair, and bright green eyes.

He was my everything, and I was hungry for him – greedy with want for him. I would do anything for him, and when it was possible I spent every second with him that I could - to hear his voice, see his smile, feel his touch. I wanted to reach out and trail my fingers down his face, and lean in and kiss him; taste his beauty. I wanted to wrap him up in my arms and never let him go; to keep him all for myself.

I was young and naïve and I thought that I had found my forever. He was my yellow - all light, and warmth, and joy, and conteentment. Soft and pale, yet bright and alive - throbbing in the dark, like so many millions of stars pulsing in the black of night. He was all yellow, and it was all yellow, and at the time I couldn't imagine a more beautiful colour. But, if he were my yellow, then I was his blue, and not the blue of a hot, hot flame, but the deep blue of cool, refreshing waters that beckon you after a hard day's work in the sun. I was like the blue of the sky - clear and bright and reassuring in its consistency - or the blue of a favourite sweatshirt - a little faded, and worn around the edges, but still the most comfortable thing to be found in the closet.

Together, we were green, soft, like the colour of my walls, but still light, and cheerful, and calming, and fresh, and alive. But in the end it really wasn't enough. No matter how hard I tried, we did not burn with the red passion that he so yearned for with another. And no matter how hard he tried, in his own way, to make me happy and give me what I so desired, the soft green of our making could not quench his thirst for dark red passion.

I refused to let go of the possibilities, and he refused to believe in them, and for the first time in all of our years together, we truly faltered, stumbling and losing sight of each other in a mutual haze of frustration and resentment. And then one morning I woke to see the haze part and a young man emerge. The boy I had loved with all of my being had grown into a beautiful stranger, and I finally saw that the green of our very own world had turned murky and brown, stagnant from lack of care. And I cried; I cried, and not for my broken heart, or in frustration, but for what I had done - for everything that I had put him through, and everything I didn't do. I cried because I had lost him and was blessed enough to have found him again. I cried for my best friend and for all of my sins against him, and for the fact that even after all of this time I still loved him with all of my heart simply because he was my friend.

These days I often stop and wonder. I wonder about a lot of things actually – about what has passed between us and what is to come. Our world is no longer murky from stagnancy, but it isn't the same green of years past and I wonder if it will ever be - I don't suppose you can ever go back, only forward. I wonder what he wonders. I wonder if he looks at me and sees that I am sorry for all things passed. I wonder if he looks back with regret on the time we lost. I wonder still, sometimes, what it would be like to kiss him, not because I am with want to, but because I never had the chance and I can't help but be curious. I wonder if he is relieved to be back here where it is comfortable and warm. I wonder if he is still glad, even after all these years, to have me in his life. But mostly, I wonder if he will ever let me in so close again: I wonder if he has forgiven me. I wonder if he ever will.

Then last night, as I lay on his bed by his side, with the blue Christmas lights strung above his window punctuating the dark of his room, and the music floating out of his computer speakers acting as the soundtrack to our quiet discourse, I realized something: he was still my yellow. He may no longer induce shivers of anticipation, or set my heart to race, but he is still yellow. He is still warm summer nights, and endless starry skies, and bright red falling leaves. He is still my yellow, and it is still one of the most beautiful colours I have ever known.

And as he smiled at me - a real smile, not the humour-laced smirks or good-natured grins of an amused friend, but a warm, genuine smile that was reflected back in his eyes and heard in his voice and felt in his touch - I knew that everything would be fine again. I realized that whatever may happen the stars of my adolescence will always shine for him, but that these days I have a much greater appreciation for the easy familiarity that the colour green can offer.