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Our encounters were few and far between, but he was too gentlemanly, almost believing that he was not heterosexual.
His gentle manner only made me compare him to the gentleness found more in homosexuals, even more than in women.
But he wasn't like that, he was just an educated man, raised by his granny, endowed with a gentleness that few men possess.
I wanted him so much, but he was one of those who preferred to wait for marriage. He even told me that what we had was not friendship, but neither was it love.
I didn't know what to call it, for I found it in my innocence, or perhaps in my ignorance, that I had never questioned him about the ring he wore on one of his fingers.
It was then that he explained to me that he was married, but that he was confused.
‘We are not Love, we are not Friends, we are something special,’ he told me. And so we walked together one afternoon, knowing that he was a stranger to me, but that something of me belonged to him, and something of him was mine.
That afternoon, I cried in front of him, and he held me tightly, telling me that we would own what we felt, and that, even if it wasn't love or friendship, it would always be something special that would keep us together.
He offered one of his kisses to mark my forehead, and it was the most beautiful kiss of my life.