Gabe’s 40th birthday is next week. Fucking hell, we’re all getting old- I’m 32, yeah, but thinking about Gabe Saporta hitting his midlife crisis (actually, to be fair he’s probably already hit it several times before hitting the big 4-zero) really threw me for a loop when he sent me a text, clearly sent to dozens upon dozens of others, that invited me to his birthday party. ‘Birthday party’, like we’re all 14, when in reality, the youngest of us (when I say ‘us’, there’s no specific group in mind- perhaps, people big in the music industry in the 2000’s) is probably around my age, early thirties. Well, I haven’t matured other than physically a day over 18 since I hit that age, so. Does it really count? Thinking about it, neither has Gabe. Either way, I considered it for only a second before I sent a quick text in response confirming my attendance. Only immediately after pressing ‘send’ did I start feeling some kind of dread- it’s a big milestone, lots of people will be there, no doubt, which usually wouldn’t be a problem.

The real problem this time was [i]who[/i] is likely to attend and when my thoughts strayed in that direction I suddenly felt slightly sick and typed out an entire text to backtrack and apologise but then deleted it, attempting to pull myself together. You’re a grown man, I had thought, throwing my phone down onto my bed, it’s been almost a fucking decade since you’ve seen him, it’ll be fine. It’ll be nice, reuniting.

Ryan Rowe; ex-member of my band, the band in which I am now the only member, my ex-best friend, my almost, my perhaps, my what-if. During the first few years after the split we kept in touch, but. We drifted, as was probably inevitable. And I haven’t spoken to him at all in at least eight years. Seen him, sure, relatively often at events, and it always makes my heartrate increase, but. We’ve never said a word. I remember locking eyes with him one time accidentally and thinking about it for much longer than I should have, wondering whether he was looking at me or straight through me like I just wasn’t there.

Famously reclusive and fame-shy Ryan Rowe meant more to me than I’ll ever be able to explain. I don’t know how he felt about me, exactly. I don’t even know properly how I felt about him. We never talked about it. Though I try to sabotage the memory, I can recall nights alone in the tour bus where we would act without thinking and do things that the [i]just friends[/i] he described in his stupid livejournal didn’t fucking do- and yet, he’d always go, we never spoke about it, he’d go back to some girl. I was his dirty little secret. Well, that’s unfair. He was mine too. But then again, we always thought, it doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t make us gay, or mean we have feelings for eachother. It’s just doing stuff, we thought. No big deal.

We were stupid teenagers, he was just being a dickhead and [i]experimenting[/i] like people our age in that time tended to do. Ryan Rowe is not the kind of man that sets out to break hearts or even fall in love in the first place- love, a concept we both would have and probably still did laugh at. I don’t know much about Ryan’s romantic life following the split, but he’s never been too successful. I hate myself for getting so attached to him and letting fond memories of him paralyze me for last decade or more. I hate myself for not saying anything to him while I had the chance and clearing it all up- though in hindsight, I don’t know what I’d say because I don’t know what it was that I was feeling.

Even hearing his name, the name I used to say like a prayer, is enough to make me visibly uncomfortable, as seen in interviews and otherwise. That’s why the thought of this event is stressing me out more than a birthday party should. Here I am, getting dressed, improvising because Gabe never gave me a dress code- so I go black skinny jeans and a tucked-in grey short-sleeved shirt- and I’m seriously considering for the first time in forever breaking into the medication I was prescribed forever ago for anxiety and some symptoms of adhd so I don’t come off too weird or strong with anyone. Thinking about it, I remind myself why I don’t take that stuff, and shrug on an oversized denim jacket before ordering an Uber, because if I want to enjoy myself tonight I’ll have to drink and if I drink I won’t be able to drive myself home.

I’ve pregamed, too, to calm my nerves, and all I can do is convince myself to chill out and loosen up. Despite my outwardly outgoing and extroverted nature, I struggle with crowds, but I’m a good actor and can behave otherwise. Trying to relax my muscles in the back of the car is futile; but if I drink enough, nobody will be able to tell that I’m nervous. And I’m used to hiding my real emotions anyway. I’m a performer. The performance begins when I walk into Gabe Saporta’s house, and he’s there, Ryan, right away, in the hallway. He must’ve arrived just before me. He’s turning around. I freeze. I missed him, I missed him. He’s right there in front of me. 

[b]”Hey! Dude, was that your fucking car outside? It’s [i]dope.[/i]”[/b]