“I might love her.”
He blurted it out, unprovoked, unexpectedly.
They had been talking about quantum computing, philosophy, football, politics. In short: everything two friends would talk about after not having seen each other for months. But on the fifth pint, they finally arrived at the subject of girls and the surprising confession.
His friend didn’t even know he had a girlfriend. His love life was not something he often talked about after all. Not because he didn’t have one. But because he didn’t like to arouse wild expectations about what would often be a fling and nothing more. Yet somehow, tonight, he felt compelled to tell his friend he could perhaps love the girl he was currently seeing.
He didn’t know why he chose to utter those four words. He didn’t even realise he felt that way before he expressed the sentiment. It had been a long time since he last told anyone he might be in love, as a matter of fact. A very long time.
His friend patted him on the back and for the next few minutes he told him how they met, that they were colleagues and that nobody in the office had an inkling they were seeing each other. He told him he didn’t really expect this affair to go beyond the one-year-itch that had proved fatal so often in his life. And he told him once more that – despite all that – he might love her.
He just might.
Or as his friend, the guy he’d known longer than any other person in his life bar his family, proudly, happily, more accurately put it:
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