Dance Night

The worst thing, I’ve realized, about being a nice guy
and being in the Friendzone, is the worrying part.

You are close friends.

You’re the quiet type, and you don’t really love the idea of sports.
Nor the idea of a massive party.

She’s proper, and she’s prim
but she’s got a crazy side that sometimes make you just sit down and wonder
why’d you even put yourself in this situation but then you remember
it’s not a matter of choice.

And now, it’s a massive party.
Well, at least for you.

A conflagration of lights and music blended into one, a heaven for most but
you just can’t seem to find God in the crowd.

And she’s probably in there, with the crowd.
She’s comfortable out there, dancing, singing, living.

And you’re on the bleachers.
You’re comfortable in there, sitting, cold, lonely.

Then you start to panic.
Panic about where she is.
Panic about who she’s with.
Panic because you’re thinking of too many what-ifs.
Your heartbeat will race but it’s not due to the beat.
You will sweat despite the fact it’s freezing outside.
You won’t be able to breathe like you normally can, and it’s worse than after your PE class.
Your head will spin, and there are times when you almost fall.

And it won’t stop.
You’ll never know what happened.
You can’t ask her what she did, or where she was, or who she was with because
you are not her boyfriend.
You never were, and you probably wouldn’t be.

You can only breathe a little bit easier by thinking maybe,
maybe hopefully she’s keeping herself safe and not letting others take advantage of
the confusion she is in.

But still, the worry will never leave until you see her with her best friends,
smiling her wonderful smile, and you breathe in deeply.
You collapse into a mess of thank-you-Lord’s and smile into the night.

She’ll never know how much you cared.

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