Since June I've been feeling like I've lost my gravity. Not seriousness gravity, more the kind of gravity that keeps planets in orbit. I'm a planet. I'm not a sun. I need someone to orbit. I'm swayed by the gravity of others. Metaphor. Metaphor.
For a long time I orbited around Leigh. I felt right there, comfortable, knowing that - whatever 'that' might be...I think I knew when I started the sentence, but I forgot. Anyway, I gravitated to him. It was stable. It was all good.
But then I started gravitating toward Grey, too. It was pretty much involuntary. Wherever she was, I felt compelled to be there also. Not too close - I couldn't let her notice - but always thinking of where she was, what I could do to be closer to her. It was gravity, that's the only way I know to describe.
But then in June she left, as I knew she would. What I didn't know was that I would lose Leigh, too. I so firmly believed that with her gone, I would return to gravitating solely around him, with him willing, tolerating, reciprocating. But that didn't happen. He shrank from me, abandoned me, neglected me, found other friends, leaving me drifting, floating, alone, without gravity.
Several times I thought it was over for good. Several times I thought it would all be okay. Often I just didn't know; I wandered, settling for Regi's company or vainly seeking to borrow solace (the concept, this time) from books. But neither Regi nor books held any gravitational pull for me. I like them, sure, but I can't orbit them.
Today is one of those times when I think, more certainly now than ever, that it truly is going to be okay, that I can stop drifting, because Leigh is ready to take me back and I'm ready to go back to him. I'm wary of saying it with absolute certainty, because I've been wrong so many times before, but this time is different.
This morning I confronted him with a simplified version of the 'Whatever Happened to Evermore?' speech. I said (although with far more ellipses):
'I've done some more thinking, and I've decided that I don't want to do the chess thing. If this is the way you're going to be, if you're going to - if how much fun you're having is more important than whether I need help, need support, then you're not the person I thought you were, you're not the person I loved, and you're not a person on whom I care to spend any more of my emotional energy. So, if that's the way you feel, if you really don't care about me, which I really thought you did...'
He insisted that he did care, but added, 'I just don't think this is going to work.' I demanded explanation. He needed time to think. He left class early to think. He thought all through first period. He thought - I don't even know how long. And somewhere in his thinking, he had a change of heart, and reverted to the person I had thought he was, the person I loved, the person on whom I was willing to spend as much emotional energy as needed. He turned back into my dear old wonderful Leigh. I don't know how. But he did it.
At lunch he told me everything, or at least enough. How he did care, how he hadn't fully realized that I was really still hurting, and not just deliberately torturing myself anymore, how... well, everything. I told him everything, too. How I had been reluctant to tell him about my feelings for Grey because I still had an idea that he might want a more romantic relationship with me, and I didn't want to remove that possibility by letting him think, or know, or whatever, that I was gay. I told him how I've had a little bit of a crush on him for a while - just that. Just as it is: Platonic love, romantic crush. He told me that he had felt the same way about me for a while, but had 'gotten over it' and now was interested in someone else. How there was always the small, guilty part of him reminding him of his own first love and how he really wasn't completely over her. I told him that the reason I had asked about how long it was before he had noticed anyone else was because I had noticed someone, and felt insecure about doing so after only four months. He reassured me that that's perfectly normal, 'To the extent that anything that happens to me can be considered normal, that is.'
In short, each of us spilled all his secrets. We told each other everything, and it was so, so much better than merely laughing and joking together like old times. It was such a relief that I'm sure I'm not experiencing its full effects - if I were, I'd probably have been whooping and grinning for the rest of the day.
This time, it seems permanent. Gravity's back.