I saw him again.

I saw him again. I saw him again and I wasn't prepared, you see, because I had spent the whole month trying to accept that he didn't want to see me. But he did. He did want to see me. Probably not as much as I wanted to see him, but just enough for me to hold on to it.

And I couldn't sleep that night, I was so nervous. 

When I saw him I didn't know what to do. It took a moment for me to realize I needed to hug him. That hug was not long enough. I wanted to hold on to him longer, I wanted to hold on forever, but I didn't want to scare him off. So I played it cool.

Playing it cool has never been my thing you see? Did I talk too much? Was I funny enough? Did I act the way I was supposed to? Was I good enough for him to not regret seeing me?

I hope so, and I hate not being able to ask, I hate not knowing what he thinks, and I hate feeling so pathetic because I care so much.

I thought it went well. I thought it was a step forward to regain our weird friendship.

Later, my friend asked me if there had been any sexual tension and I'm scared that the answer might have been yes.

And I'm scared that the answer might have been no.