The way he looked at me, there was a sort of tenderness. He would look right into my eyes, into my soul, and his face would somehow - for the most bizarre and unknown reasons -light up. And every time I turned to return his glance, his eyes would grow and his lips would curl to a small smile seeing me look back. There was a sort of contentment looking into each other, and there was such a strong sense of security just laying on his shoulders, admiring the distance rush by in the train.

There he was - the light at the end of a tunnel that I couldn't seem to understand nor escape; there he was - the person so close, so terrifyingly close, to the person I saw myself with forever. Under those tanned leather jacket was a person who saw the world in such a different light and perspective that it made mine look insignificantly crude. Yet, the patience he held in his heart, he sung peace to my ever shaking, changing soap opera of a life. He held my hand and everything - all the pain, holes, and scars - felt complete.

That was the first day we met, on a train down to New York City to chase passion.

Maybe we would have sped off into a beautiful start of a love story. Maybe; if only I didn't still have another person in my life, someone who loved me dearly. Because in a dormitory tucked right off the academic mall of my university was a boy a year younger than I am who had fell in love with me since I stepped into his life. He was a boy who cared with so much fervor, and loved with so much passion, that each day, while I should be dancing with glee, I ached with guilt. It was a guilt knowing that I'd never come close to loving him as he loved me.

So here is my humble story - my story of guilt and shame in manipulating two young men that I love immensely, yet would never be able to choose either.