When I met Javi I never imagined our relationship would become so close and passionate. He was the first person outside my family who I'd told I was gay, and I have to say that it never mattered to him.

I was seventeen. We met by chance at college. We both belonged to the same club and we got on really well. He was one of those people all the girls adored-tall, handsome, kind, intelligent, tender, and amusing.

In short, he was perfect.

That summer, I'm not sure how it started, we started hanging out with the same group of friends. His girlfriend was leaving to live far away, and he was cut up about it although he tried to hide it. I was a shoulder for him to cry on, and was able to comfort him in his troubles. When the new school year started, I realised I was in love with him.

I tried to hide it, but it was so powerful that it was hard to keep him from knowing, and eventually I admitted it to him. Once again, he was OK with it and went as far as telling me he was thankful for it. He was flattered by it, which was a relief for me. Our relationship developed, and my love for him increased all the more, growing into one of the most frustrating kind of affection a person can endure. His heterosexuality prevented him entering the kind of relationship I wanted, but I respected him as he did me.

A year passed and the situation got right out of control. After he'd broken up with his girlfriend, Javi changed completely. He became unpleasant and overbearing, although he usually got away with it because of his good reputation and good looks, and our relationship became strained. I admit that I wasn't entirely blameless, but no-one deserves what I went through: the quarrels, the tears, the sleepless nights, and problems with my health.

What with the other problems I had, I became deeply depressed and even had to stay down a year at university.

He didn't know about that, as we were never roommates. We kissed only once, and that was on a dare, and as far as sex is concerned nothing ever happened.

The high-point came on Christmas Day in 1996. We went in my car to the outskirts, where there was a beautiful view of the city. We stayed there three hours, sharing a bottle of champagne, and I made love to him with my words, holding his hand tightly between mine, and once more I told him what he meant to me. I rested my head on his shoulder for a few moments.

That was one of the most beautiful erotic experiences I've had.

I was still in love with him, and still was hurt that he didn't love me, and it was then that I decided to try and forget about him. I didn't exactly chose a clever way to do it: there were many problems, we drifted apart, and both acquired new friends.

Nowadays, he leads his own life. We bump into other from time to time, but I've never given up trying to get over him. We are still friends, although I've not yet found the right partner for me.

Javi was a very important person in my life. I was madly in love with him, and I'm grateful for all the unfailing support and patience he had for me. And now that I come to the end of my story, I can't say that I've forgotten him completely: something of that love will always remain, and I suspect he knows this too.

Toño 
(Spain)