Awkward Friendship Quotes

For someone like myself in whom the ability to trust others is so cracked and broken that I am wretchedly timid and am forever trying to read the expression on people's faces.

He could only consider me as the living corpse of a would-be suicide, a person dead to shame, an idiot ghost.

I love how you aren't weird and awkward, despite the fact that you've been severely cut off from socialization to the point where you make the Amish look trendy.

What is society but an individual? [...] The ocean is not society; it is individuals. This was how I managed to gain a modicum of freedom from my terror at the illusion of the ocean called the world.

Nothing is more curious and awkward than the relationship of two people who only know each other with their eyes — who meet and observe each other daily, even hourly and who keep up the impression of disinterest either because of morals or because of a mental abnormality. Between them there is listlessness and pent-up curiosity, the hysteria of an unsatisfied, unnaturally suppressed need for communion and also a kind of tense respect. Because man loves and honors man as long as he is not able to judge him, and desire is a product of lacking knowledge.

Did you just tell us you're gay?" asks Nick. "Yes." "Okay," he says. Abby swats him. "What?" "That's all you're going to say? Okay?" "He said not to make a big deal out of it," Nick says. "What am I supposed to say?" "Say something supportive. I don't know. Or awkwardly hold his hand like I did. Anything." Nick and I look at each other. "I'm not holding your hand," I tell him, smiling a little. "All right" --he nods-- "but know that I would.

Our friendship--if I could even call it that--was obviously awkward and flawed, but at least it was honest. "~America Singer,

The cracks in old friendships are measured in awkward pauses.

He’s an indulgent sort of man…… With a quick lip and a fierce tongue, the sort of tongue that draws you in with charm and words of praise, awkward silences and desperate worships.

Even now it comes as a shock if by chance I notice in the street a face resembling someone I know however slightly, and I am at once seized by a shivering violent enough to make me dizzy.

Martin is your best friend, isn't he?' a sweet and well-intentioned girl once said when both of us were present: it was the only time I ever felt awkward about this precious idea, which seemed somehow to risk diminishment if it were uttered aloud.

When I finally get out of bed, the only thing I want to do is go straight to Amy and demand her forgiveness. Maybe we can at least go back to what we had before our fight, even if all we had was an awkward friendship punctuated by significant silences.

Show me what you've written," I said, although I wanted desperately to avoid looking at it.

Mom was asking me to resume a friendship that had no honest foundation and ended on screamingly awkward terms. How do you do that? You can’t.

if it was murder, what if the murderer was, like, weird, which would make their subsequent marriage to Gideon pretty awkward? Maybe they could just swap friendship bracelets. In

At that moment there was a knock on the door, and Sam came in. He ran to Frodo and took his left hand, awkwardly and shyly. He stroked it gently and then he blushed and turned hastily away.

My mom says . . . there are bad people who hurt others for fun . . . and there are good people who do it by accident. Like, they make a mistake? I think you're a good person.

Conversation was only awkward because she searched for something important to say. Friends didn't do that. Friends let their thoughts become words without trying to change them.

One way to tell if you're really comfortable with a person is if you can be quiet together sometimes and not feel awkward. If you don't feel obligated to say something brilliant or funny or surprising or cool. You can just be together. You can just be.

I haven’t been a good guest in Hugo’s life. I access his memories and discover that he and Austin first became boyfriends at this very celebration, a year ago this weekend. They’d been friends for a little while, but they’d never talked about how they felt. They were each afraid of ruining the friendship, and instead of making it better, their caution made everything awkward. So finally, as a pair of twentysomething men passed by holding hands, Austin said, “Hey, that could be us in ten years.” And Hugo said, “Or ten months.” And Austin said, “Or ten days.” And Hugo said, “Or ten minutes.” And Austin said, “Or ten seconds.” Then they each counted to ten, and held hands for the rest of the day. The start of it. Hugo would have remembered this. But I didn’t.

Penelope? Thank you. For not leaving me alone to deal with this . . . when things got hard. other people would have. You're a true friend.

This is the best thing about men's friendships: most any awkwardness can be ignored by mutual agreement and, true connection being unimaginable, you can get on with the easier business of parallel living.

We didn't say or write anything for a long time. Normally silence like that was uncomfortable and awkward. Like you needed to say something to fill the empty space in the air. But it didn't feel like that with Samantha. Maybe it was because I couldn't say anything and fill the quiet, but I thought it was more about two people just being with each other, enjoying the slowdown and the rare sunshine.

. . . you know who Polworth is?" "Your best mate," said Robin. "He's my oldest mate," Strike corrected her. "My best mate . . . " For a split second he wondered whether he was going to say it, but the whisky had lifted the guard he usually kept upon himself: why not say it, why not let go? " . . . is you." Robin was so amazed, she couldn't speak. Never, in four years, had Strike come close to telling her what she was to him. Fondness had had to be deduced from offhand comments, small kindnesses, awkward silences or gestures forced from him under stress. She'd only once before felt as she did now, and the unexpected gift that had engendered the feeling had been a sapphire and diamond ring, which she'd left behind when she walked out on the man who'd given it to her. She wanted to make some kind of return, but for a moment or two, her throat felt too constricted. "I . . . well, the feeling's mutual," she said, trying not to sound too happy.

Sometimes you can feel old-sweatshirt comfortable with someone you've just met and two-left-shoes awkward with people you've known for ages.

I had always thought that I was fine with being alone. Halfway through high school, I moved from Brazil to America, and it took me forever to make friends. I had culture shock of virtually every kind, besides which I was awkward, geeky, and shy. So I ate alone, telling myself that it was fine while I watched other people have normal conversations with their friends.

The question is, Miss Finch . . . what are you doing in this village?” “I’ve been trying to explain it to you. We have a community of ladies here in Spindle Cove, and we support one another with friendship, intellectual stimulation, and healthful living.” “No, no. I can see how this might appeal to a mousy, awkward chit with no prospects for something better. But what are you doing here?” Perplexed, she turned her gloved hands palms-up. “Living happily.” “Really,” he said, giving her a skeptical look. Even his horse snorted in seeming disbelief. “A woman like you.” She bristled. Just what kind of woman did he think she was? “If you think yourself content with no man in your life, Miss Finch, that only proves one thing.” In a swift motion, he pulled himself into the saddle. His next words were spoken down at her, making her feel small and patronized. “You’ve been meeting all the wrong men.

Hermione,’ said Hagrid. ‘What about her?’ said Ron. ‘She’s in a righ’ state, that’s what. She’s bin comin’ down ter visit me a lot since Chris’mas. Bin feelin’ lonely. Firs’ yeh weren’ talking to her because o’ the Firebolt, now yer not talkin’ to her because her cat—’ ‘—ate Scabbers!’ Ron interjected angrily. ‘Because her cat acted like all cats do,’ Hagrid continued doggedly. ‘She’s cried a fair few times, yeh know. Goin’ through a rough time at the moment. Bitten off more’n she can chew, if yeh ask me, all the work she’s tryin’ ter do. Still found time ter help me with Buckbeak’s case, mind.… She’s found some really good stuff fer me…reckon he’ll stand a good chance now…’ ‘Hagrid, we should've helped as well—sorry—’ Harry began awkwardly. ‘I’m not blamin’ yeh!’ said Hagrid, waving Harry’s apology aside. ‘Gawd knows yeh’ve had enough ter be gettin’ on with. I’ve seen yeh practicin’ Quidditch ev’ry hour o’ the day an’ night—but I gotta tell yeh, I thought you two’d value yer friend more’n broomsticks or rats. Tha’s all.’ Harry and Ron exchanged uncomfortable looks. ‘Really upset, she was, when Black nearly stabbed yeh, Ron. She’s got her heart in the right place, Hermione has, an’ you two not talkin’ to her—

Friends are great, except, I never know what to do with them. I see other people and it all seems so natural. They laugh and talk and make plans to talk and laugh some more at a later date. I would probably throw a fry at them and hope they were distracted enough not to notice me running away.

The conversation was mesmerizing, not for its content but for the cadences of the talk, the rhythm we fell into when we were alone, now as before. Every conversation between friends or lovers creates its own easy or awkward rhythms, hidden talk that runs like a subterranean river under even the most banal exchange.

One spirit remained unaware of his presence, staring at Miss Parker with such longing that he reluctantly decided to let it stay. The spirit, a hollow-eyed girl with ringlets and clothing from long past, reached toward Percy, wishing to touch her. Alexi understood. When left to her own devices, Miss Parker was neither shy nor awkward; she was radiant.

It figured my family would get along better with Clark than they did me.

Oh stupid, silly, awkward me; Will I never, ever see? People babble, speak, and talk; All I can do is stand and gawk!

I never really have believed in the existence of friendship in big societies - in great towns and great crowds. It's a plant that takes time and space and air; and London society is a huge "squash", as we elegantly call it - an elbowing, pushing, perspiring, chattering mob.

Around this time, Pelletier and Espinoza, worried about the current state of their mutual lover, had two long conversations on the phone. The first conversation began awkwardly, although Espinoza had been expecting Pelletier's call, as if both men found it difficult to say what sooner or later they would have to say. The first twenty minutes were tragic in tone, with the word 'fate' used ten times and the word 'friendship' twenty-four times. Liz Norton's name was spoken fifty times, nine of them in vain. The word 'Paris' was said seven times, 'Madrid', eight. The word 'love' was spoken twice, once by each man. The word 'horror' was spoken six times and the word 'happiness' once (by Espinoza). The word 'solution' was said twelve times. The word 'solipsism' once (Pelletier). The word 'euphemism' ten times. The word 'category', in the singular and plural, nine times. The word 'structuralism' once (Pelletier). The term 'American literature' three times. The word 'dinner' or 'eating' or 'breakfast' or 'sandwich' nineteen times. The word 'eyes' or 'hands' or 'hair' fourteen times. Then the conversation proceeded more smoothly. Pelletier told Espinoza a joke in German and Espinoza laughed. In fact, they both laughed, wrapped up in the waves of whatever it was that linked their voices and ears across the dark fields and the windows and the snow of the Pyrenees and the rivers and lonely roads and the separate and interminable suburbs surrounding Paris and Madrid.

It’s even more awkward when we’re face to face with people. It used to be exciting to make plans with friends because you could sit and catch up and talk about what’s been going on in your lives. Now when you see someone there’s nothing left to say. You’ve already seen the pictures from their trip to Rio on Facebook. You’ve read their tweets about the latest diet they’re on. And they already texted you about the pregnancy scare. So you end up just sitting and staring at each other until you both start texting other people.

We just stood there for a few seconds. Back when we were friends, we'd have already been laughing and joking. Now things were tense and awkward. There was no way I could ever be relaxed around this person again. To me, Sage would never be just Sage. She'd be Sage-the-boy-who-pretended-to-be-a-girl-and-who-I-kissed-that-one-time. No friendship could survive with that many hyphens.

Rose had grown up in a room filled with sixty other girls. She was used to the intimacy of other female bodies. When a girl reached out a hand to her, Rose always instinctively grabbed it. Poppy was not used to touching other women. Poppy was that strange thing: an only child.

Being the only stranger at dinner with a group of girls who are already close friends doesn't sound appealing at all. I'll have to pretend to laugh at stories I don't get about people I don't know. I'll probably stuff my face just to have something to do while they all gab about their ninth-grade English teacher or some other inside joke that makes me feel like an outsider. It's hard to know how to behave in those situations. You can jump right in, asking "Who?" and "Where was this?" or you can sit back and let them have their laughs. I almost always opt for the latter, sometimes to my detriment. What I think is letting them have their fun, they might takes as she-thinks-she's-too-cool.

Xander saw him to the door. It wasn’t awkward per se, but it was a…charged goodbye. They were both aware everything had changed. That they’d cracked into something good, but scary. Fragile. Something to be treated with care. He vowed to not mess this friendship up, to not muddy it or screw with it in any way.

Sometimes it's not all about the chocolate & the flowers & the jewelry & compliments. When you're dealing with real people & real feelings, sometimes it's about awkwardly presented offers of friendship. My advice is to recognize these for what they are, and make of them what you can, even if someone is giving you a metaphorical severed deer leg to get you to notice them. As I've recently learned, you never can tell where your best friends will come from in this life.

Despite your best efforts and intentions, there's a limited reservoir to fellowship before you begin to rely solely on the vapors of nostalgia. Eventually, you move on, latch on to another group of friends. Once in a while, though, you remember something, a remark or a gesture, and it takes you back. You think how close all of you were, the laughs and commiserations, the fondness and affection and support. You recall the parties, the trips, the dinners and late, late nights. Even the arguments and small betrayals have a revisionist charm in retrospect. You're astonished and enlivened by the memories. You wonder why and how it ever stopped. You have the urge to pick up the phone, fire off an email, suggesting reunion, resumption, and you start to act, but then don't, because it would be awkward talking after such a long lag, and, really, what would be the point? Your lives are different now. Whatever was there before is gone. And it saddens you, it makes you feel old and vanquished--not only over this group that disbanded, but also over all the others before and after it, the friends you had in grade and high school, in college, in your twenties and thirties, your kinship to them (never mind to all your old lovers) ephemeral and, quite possibly, illusory to begin with.

Our convesation is awkward, as though our friendship is another skill that I remember but can't use anymore.

Harper laughed awkwardly at my awkwardness because awkwardness is always multiplied and never divided.

By educating me at home, my parents were able to give me individualized attention without the usual distractions that kids in regular school experience, like dating and friendship. Not to mention that traditional school can be dangerous. I’ve heard about kids catching the flu and chicken pox, even Judaism. And how about those poor kids lugging all those heavy books to and from school every day? My books never went anywhere, just like me. I felt so bad when I’d see kids on my street giggling and chasing each other around with those awkward backpacks.

The first conversation began awkwardly, although Espinoza had been expecting Pelletier's call, as if both men found it difficult to say what sooner or later the would have to say. The first twenty minutes were tragic in tone, with the word fate used ten times and the word friendship twenty-four times. Liz Norton's name was spoken fifty times, nine of them in vain. The word Paris was said seven times, Madrid, eight. The word love was spoken twice, once by each man. The word horror was spoken six times and the word happiness once (by Espinoza). The word solution was said twelve times. The word solipsism seven times. The world euphemism ten times. The word category, in the singular and the plural, nine times. The word structuralism once (Pelletier). The term American literature three times. The words dinner or eating or breakfast or sandwich nineteen times. The words eyes or hands or hair fourteen times. The the conversation proceeded more smoothly.

This is the best thing about men’s friendships: most any awkwardness can be ignored by mutual agreement and, true connection being unimaginable, you can get on with the easier business of parallel living.

I always felt that there was something different about me but I did not know what it was. I was socially awkward, friendship was difficult and I was envious of the way other people were able to interact.               For

The non-anxious person rejects loneliness. He or she chooses connection, even when it’s hard. You choose love over hate, friendships over disconnection, and awkwardness over networking. This is an entry point toward a non-anxious life.

The thing about awkward people was that they made so many mistakes, you could make your own around them. They wouldn’t ding you for it. From their presence, you could be yourself around them and simply release. It was strangely relieving being around someone who made you uncomfortable. Not only were they interesting to watch, but you could do just about anything with them. It was as if some bodies were made of an all-purpose fiber that excluded no activity from its nature.

The setting was alpha’s giving, and we were playing the awkward game. I was asked, “Who would go gay for five dollars?” In my head, I was thinking going on one date not marriage, so I chose someone easily. When the question was revealed and protests began, thank God only Isa heard my defense: “I just thought she would do it for the money.

You seem disappointed that I am not more responsive to your interest in "spiritual direction". Actually, I am more than a little ambivalent about the term, particularly in the ways it is being used so loosely without any sense of knowledge of the church's traditions in these matters. If by spiritual direction you mean entering into a friendship with another person in which an awareness and responsiveness to God's Spirit in the everydayness of your life is cultivated, fine. Then why call in an awkward term like "spiritual direction"? Why not just "friend"? Spiritual direction strikes me as pretentious in these circumstances, as if there were some expertise that can be acquired more or less on its own and then dispensed on demand. The other reason for my lack of enthusiasm is my well-founded fear of professionalism in any and all matters of the Christian life. Or maybe the right label for my fear is "functionalism". The moment an aspect of Christian living (human life, for that matter) is defined as a role, it is distorted, debased - and eventually destroyed. We are brothers and sisters with one another, friends and lovers, saints and sinners. The irony here is that the rise of interest in spiritual direction almost certainly comes from the proliferation of role-defined activism in our culture. We are sick and tired of being slotted into a function and then manipulated with Scripture and prayer to do what someone has decided (often with the help of some psychological testing) that we should be doing to bring glory to some religious enterprise or other. And so when people begin to show up who are interested in us just as we are - our souls - we are ready to be paid attention to in this prayerful, listening, non-manipulative, nonfunctional way. Spiritual direction. But then it begins to develop a culture and language and hierarchy all its own. It becomes first a special interest, and then a specialization. That is what seems to be happening in the circles you are frequenting. I seriously doubt that it is a healthy (holy) line to be pursuing. Instead, why don't you look over the congregation on Sundays and pick someone who appears to be mature and congenial. Ask her or him if you can meet together every month or so - you feel the need to talk about your life in the company of someone who believes that Jesus is present and active in everything you are doing. Reassure the person that he or she doesn't have to say anything "wise". You only want them to be there for you to listen and be prayerful in the listening. After three or four such meetings, write to me what has transpired, and we'll discuss it further. I've had a number of men and women who have served me in this way over the years - none carried the title "spiritual director", although that is what they have been. Some had never heard of such a term. When I moved to Canada a few years ago and had to leave a long-term relationship of this sort, I looked around for someone whom I could be with in this way. I picked a man whom I knew to be a person of integrity and prayer, with seasoned Christian wisdom in his bones. I anticipated that he would disqualify himself. So I pre-composed my rebuttal: "All I want you to do is two things: show up and shut up. Can you do that? Meet with me every six weeks or so, and just be there - an honest, prayerful presence with no responsibility to be anything other than what you have become in your obedient lifetime." And it worked. If that is what you mean by "spiritual director," okay. But I still prefer "friend". You can see now from my comments that my gut feeling is that the most mature and reliable Christian guidance and understanding comes out of the most immediate and local of settings. The ordinary way. We have to break this cultural habit of sending out for an expert every time we feel we need some assistance. Wisdom is not a matter of expertise. The peace of the Lord, Eugene

He grinned again. We'd only been seeing each other for a few weeks now, but this easy give-and-take still surprised me. From that very first day in my room, I felt like we'd somehow skipped the formalities of the Beginning of a Relationship: those awkward moments when you're not all over each other and are still feeling out the other person's boundaries and limits. Maybe this was because we'd been circling each other for a while before he finally catapulted through my window. But if I let myself think about it much - and I didn't - I had flashes of realising that I'd been comfortable with him even at the very start. Clearly, he'd been comfortable with me, grabbing my hand as he had that first day. As if he knew, even then, that we'd be here now.

It is super beautiful and romantic,” I said. “We just can’t see it.” I thought about him asking me if I’d ever been in love. It’s a weird phrase in English, in love, like it’s a sea you drown in or a town you live in. You don’t get to be in anything else—in friendship or in anger or in hope. All you can be in is love. And I wanted to tell him that even though I’d never been in love, I knew what it was like to be in a feeling, to be not just surrounded by it but also permeated by it, the way my grandmother talked about God being everywhere. When my thoughts spiraled, I was in the spiral, and of it. And I wanted to tell him that the idea of being in a feeling gave language to something I couldn’t describe before, created a form for it, but I couldn’t figure out how to say any of that out loud. “I can’t tell if this is a regular silence or an awkward silence,

August 25, 1991 Dear friend, I am writing to you because she said you listen and understand and didn’t try to sleep with that person at that party even though you could have. Please don’t try to figure out who she is because then you might figure out who I am, and I really don’t want you to do that. I will call people by different names or generic names because I don’t want you to find me. I didn’t enclose a return address for the same reason. I mean nothing bad by this. Honest. I just need to know that someone out there listens and understands and doesn’t try to sleep with people even if they could have. I need to know that these people exist. I think you of all people would understand that because I think you of all people are alive and appreciate what that means. At least I hope you do because other people look to you for strength and friendship and it’s that simple. At least that’s what I’ve heard. So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I’m still trying to figure out how that could be. I try to think of my family as a reason for me being this way, especially after my friend Michael stopped going to school one day last spring and we heard Mr. Vaughn’s voice on the loudspeaker. “Boys and girls, I regret to inform you that one of our students has passed on. We will hold a memorial service for Michael Dobson during assembly this Friday.” I don’t know how news travels around school and why it is very often right. Maybe it was in the lunchroom. It’s hard to remember. But Dave with the awkward glasses told us that Michael killed himself. His mom played bridge with one of Michael’s neighbors and they heard the gunshot. I don’t really remember much of what happened after that

All these years later, I'll be back on that dance floor. I will be swaying and the music will fill me and I will be a girl again. My friends will be there, and we'll dance all night, one song after another, and we will be laughing and laughing in each others' arms. I will be thirteen again, or fourteen, or twenty-six, or thirty, breath and rhythm, everyone awkward and ridiculous and perfect. We will be young, we will be alive, and I will be deeply grateful for these friends. I know that I was lucky to find them, the kind of friends who bring you halfway across the world, who fly with you to Puerto Rico, who hold you at your grandmother's funeral, who invite you into their home, invite you into their families, take care of you, check on you, fight for you, who make you want to be better, who give you their time and attention, share their secrets, their dreams, their communities, who show up, who see you, who hear you calling from hundreds of miles away, and slowly, slowly, love you back to life.

Everything within the cage rotates slowly, the silver stars sparkling as they catch the light. Once the slow, steady tick begins, Celia removes her hand. Friedrick does not inquire as to how she managed it. Instead, he takes her to dinner. They do speak of the circus, but spend most of the meal discussing books and art, wine and favorite cities. The pauses in the conversation are not awkward, though they struggle to find the same rhythm in speaking that was already present in their written exchanges, often switching from one language to another.

It was some time before Stoner recognized the source of his attraction to Hollis Lomax. In Lomax’s arrogance, his fluency, and his cheerful bitterness, Stoner saw, distorted but recognizable, an image of his friend David Masters. He wished to talk to him as he had talked to Dave; but he could not, even after he admitted his wish to himself. The awkwardness of his youth had not left him, but the eagerness and straightforwardness that might have made the friendship possible had. He knew what he wished was impossible, and the knowledge saddened him.

Our boys are failing in school. Has it occurred to no one that we have checked them at every turn, perversely insisting that they must not form brotherhoods, that they must not identify their manhood with practical and intellectual skills that transform the world, and that they must not ever have the opportunity, apart from girls, to attach themselves in friendship to men who could teach them? For good reason boys of that awkward age used to build tree houses and hang signs barring girls. They knew, if only instinctively, that the fire of the friendship could not subsist otherwise. But what similar thing can they do now without inviting either reproach or suspicion? Thus what is perfectly natural and healthy, indeed very much needed for certain people at certain times or for certain purposes, is cast as irrational and bigoted, or dubious and weak; and thus some boys will cobble together their own brotherhoods that eschew tenderness altogether, criminal brotherhoods that land them in prison. This is all right by us, it seems. Better to harass the Boy Scouts on Monday, and on Tuesday build another wing for the Ministry of Corrections.

I think I might be ready to go upstairs,” she said. Suddenly it was too hard to be in his presence, too painful to know that he would belong to someone else. His lips quirked into a boyish smile. “Are you saying I might finally crawl out from under this table?” “Oh, goodness!” She clapped one of her hands to her cheek in a sheepish expression. “I’m so sorry. I stopped noticing where we were sitting ages ago, I’m afraid. What a ninny you must think me.” He shook his head, still smiling. “Never a ninny, Kate. Even when I thought you the most insufferable female creature on the planet, I had no doubts about your intelligence.” Kate, who had been in the process of scooting out from under the table, paused. “I just don’t know if I should feel complimented or insulted by that statement.” “Probably both,” he admitted, “but for friendship’s sake, let’s decide upon complimented.” She turned to look at him, aware that she presented an awkward picture on her hands and knees, but the moment seemed too important to delay. “Then we are friends?” she whispered. He nodded as he stood. “Hard to believe, but I think we are.” Kate smiled as she took his helping hand and rose to her feet. “I’m glad. You’re— you’re really not the devil I’d originally thought you.” One of his brows lifted, and his face suddenly took on a very wicked expression. “Well, maybe you are,” she amended, thinking he probably was every bit the rake and rogue that society had painted him. “But maybe you’re also a rather nice person as well.” “Nice seems so bland,” he mused. “Nice,” she said emphatically, “is nice. And given what I used to think of you, you ought to be delighted by the compliment.” He laughed. “One thing about you, Kate Sheffield, is that you are never boring.” “Boring is so bland,” she quipped. -Kate & Anthony

Wait. You have a friend?” He thought Elizabeth only had workmates—fellow scientists who recognized her skill and undermined her results. Elizabeth felt a flush of embarrassment. “Well, yes,” she said awkwardly. “Margaret and I nod to each other in the hallways. We’ve spoken several times at the coffee urn.” Calvin willed his face to look as if this were a reasonable description of friendship. “It’s very last-minute. One of her bridesmaids is sick and Margaret says it’s important to have an even ratio of bridesmaids to ushers.” Although as soon as she said it, she realized what Margaret really needed: a size 6 without weekend plans.

Catti-brie didn't blink, barely drew breath. She was thinking how noble this drow had been. So many other men would not have asked questions, would have taken advantage of the situation. And would that have been such a bad thing? the young woman had to ask herself now. Her feelings for Drizzt were deep and real, a bond of friendship and love. Would it have been such a bad thing if he had made love to her in that room? Yes, she decided, for both of them, because, while it was her body that had been offered, it was Khazid'hea that was in control. Things were awkward enough between them now, but if Drizzt had relented to the feelings that Catti-brie knew he held for her, if he had not been so noble in that strange situation and had given in to the offered temptation, likely neither of them would have been able to look the other in the eye afterward. Like they were doing now, on a quiet plateau high in the mountains, with a chill and crisp breeze and the stars glowing even more brightly above them. "Ye're a good man, Drizzt Do'Urden," the grateful woman said with a heartfelt smile. "Hardly a man," Drizzt replied, chuckling, and glad for the relief of the tension. Only a temporary relief, though. The chuckle and the smile died away almost immediately, leaving them in the same place, the same awkward moment, caught somewhere between romance and fear.

The Never Unfriended Promise I promise I will never unfriend you. Not with the swipe of my finger, not with the roll of my eyes, not with a mean word said behind your back, or a circle too small to pull up one more chair. I choose to like you. I choose to choose you. To include you. To invite you. Even on the days we hit road bumps. I don’t want another friendship break up. I want a friendship that won’t give up. So, I give you my too-loud laughter and my awkward tears. I give you my sofa for the days you just can’t even. And the nights you need a safe place to feel heard without saying a word. Let there be coffee and long conversations. Let there be messy, ordinary Tuesdays where neither of us is embarrassed by our dust bunnies. I won't try to force our friendship into jeans that won't fit. I won't treat you like a quick fix. I will like you just the way you are. Because I believe in guilt-free friendship. And on the days we’re tangled up in our own insecurities let’s agree to give each other the gift of the benefit of the doubt. Wrapped up with the giant bow of believing the best about each other, even when we don’t feel like it. I'm sure I won't always get it right. But I'll keep showing up. With encouragement instead of competition. With Kleenex, big news or sad news on the bad hair days and the Mondays and all the in between days with their ordinary news too. Friendship on purpose. Here's to me and you.

There is always the risk: something is good and good and good and good, and then all at once it gets awkward. All at once, she sees you looking at her, and then she doesn't want to joke around with you anymore, because she doesn't want to seem flirty, because she doesn't want you to think she likes you. It's such a disaster, whenever, in the course of human relationships, someone begins to chisel away at the wall of separation between friendship and kissing. Breaking down that wall is the kind of story that might have a happy middle - oh, look, we broke down this wall, I'm going to look at you like a girl and you're going to look at me like a boy and we're going to play a fun game called Can I Put My Hand There What About There What About There. And sometimes that happy middle looks so great that you can convince yourself that it's not the middle but will last forever.

Jack coughed slightly and offered his hand. “Hi, uh. I’m Jack.” Kim took it. “Jack what?” “Huh?” “Your last name, silly.” “Jackson.” She blinked at him. “Your name is Jack Jackson?” He blushed. “No, uh, my first name’s Rhett, but I hate it, so…” He gestured to the chair and she sat. Her dress rode up several inches, exposing pleasing long lines of creamy skin. “Well, Jack, what’s your field of study?” “Biological Engineering, Genetics, and Microbiology. Post-doc. I’m working on a research project at the institute.” “Really? Oh, uh, my apple martini’s getting a little low.” “I’ve got that, one second.” He scurried to the bar and bought her a fresh one. She sipped and managed to make it look not only seductive but graceful as well. “What do you want to do after you’re done with the project?” Kim continued. “Depends on what I find.” She sent him a simmering smile. “What are you looking for?” Immediately, Jack’s eyes lit up and his posture straightened. “I started the project with the intention of learning how to increase the reproduction of certain endangered species. I had interest in the idea of cloning, but it proved too difficult based on the research I compiled, so I went into animal genetics and cellular biology. It turns out the animals with the best potential to combine genes were reptiles because their ability to lay eggs was a smoother transition into combining the cells to create a new species, or one with a similar ancestry that could hopefully lead to rebuilding extinct animals via surrogate birth or in-vitro fertilization. We’re on the edge of breaking that code, and if we do, it would mean that we could engineer all kinds of life and reverse what damage we’ve done to the planet’s ecosystem.” Kim stared. “Right. Would you excuse me for a second?” She wiggled off back to her pack of friends by the bar. Judging by the sniggering and the disgusted glances he was getting, she wasn’t coming back. Jack sighed and finished off his beer, massaging his forehead. “Yes, brilliant move. You blinded her with science. Genius, Jack.” He ordered a second one and finished it before he felt smallish hands on his shoulders and a pair of soft lips on his cheek. He turned to find Kamala had returned, her smile unnaturally bright in the black lights glowing over the room. “So…how did it go with Kim?” He shot her a flat look. “You notice the chair is empty.” Kamala groaned. “You talked about the research project, didn’t you?” “No!” She glared at him. “…maybe…” “You’re so useless, Jack.” She paused and then tousled his hair a bit. “Cheer up. The night’s still young. I’m not giving up on you.” He smiled in spite of himself. “Yet.” Her brown eyes flashed. “Never.

Calvin?” Elizabeth said, gathering the last of her things from the cafeteria table. “Are you listening? I said I’m going to a wedding tomorrow. Actually, I’m in the wedding if you can believe that.” She gave a nervous shrug. “So we should probably discuss that acid study tonight if that works.” “Who’s getting married?” “My friend Margaret—the Physics secretary? That’s who I’m meeting in fifteen minutes. For a fitting.” “Wait. You have a friend?” He thought Elizabeth only had workmates—fellow scientists who recognized her skill and undermined her results. Elizabeth felt a flush of embarrassment. “Well, yes,” she said awkwardly. “Margaret and I nod to each other in the hallways. We’ve spoken several times at the coffee urn.” Calvin willed his face to look as if this were a reasonable description of friendship. “It’s very last-minute. One of her bridesmaids is sick and Margaret says it’s important to have an even ratio of bridesmaids to ushers.” Although as soon as she said it, she realized what Margaret really needed: a size 6 without weekend plans.

I heard the door at the far end of the hallway swing open. Then I heard familiar footsteps approaching. After going to three different schools for seven years, I knew it was Mark. “Hi, Mark,” I said. “Hey, pal. I thought I’d find you here,” Mark said. I sighed wearily. “Did you find her?” Mark asked tentatively. “Yeah.” “Did you tell her how you feel?” “In a manner of speaking, yes.” “What did she say?” I turned around to face my best friend. Concern born of seven years’ worth of friendship was written on his open face. Whatever his faults, you could never accuse Mark of being unconcerned. “I – ah – wrote her a letter,” I said slightly embarrassed. “I see,” he said quietly. He pursed his lips. “Did she say anything?” “I asked her not to read it until after commencement.” “I see,” he said again. I could tell he was disappointed in me. There was another one of those awkward silences. I felt oddly like a mischievous schoolboy who’d been sent to the principal’s office for some infraction of the rules. Mark just shook his head in disbelief and gave me a tut-tut look. “You know,” he said quietly, “sometimes playing it safe can be the worst thing you can do.” “Macht nichts,” I said bitterly. “Like hell, macht nichts, pal. It makes a hell of a difference, if you ask me.” Mark shook his head sadly. “I really don’t want to be there when you find out for yourself what a stupid mistake it is that you made today.

with “This is a class assignment,” and (2) they had to engage the interactions with a straight face. They couldn’t give away the punchline. The exchanges went something like this: Students (walking in a group toward a stranger in a mall): “Excuse me, sir!” Stranger (looking around and awkwardly shifting bags of clothes): “Uhh, yeah? Me?” Students: “Yes! You. I was walking by, saw you, and wondered: Will you be my friend? Can I see pictures of your family? What are your political preferences? Can I see the pictures of your tattoos? What are your religious preferences? Why? Are you pro-choice? How come? Who are your favorite musicians? We’re going to read you a list of probing, introspective quotes, and you simply give us a thumbs up or a thumbs down if you like them or don’t like them. If you feel angry about a quote, tell us why.” And so on. My students had to video each interaction. And yes, it was as awkward and cringey as you can imagine. According to the papers they had to write after the fact, the assignment stirred up quite a bit of reflection. In a few short years, my students had come to believe they had “friends” because they knew some information about people. They thought they were connecting with those people. The exercise helped them see that our social media exchanges are anything but normal. The thumbs ups and thumbs downs are anything but connecting. The reality is that most of us don’t have any friends. Until recently, friendship was about enduring the awkwardness and ugliness of human

You want us to love you, is that right? Love, Tabitha Crum, is to be earned, not given away to just anyone like a festering case of fleas. She'd been seven when her mother had made the comparison of love and irritable itching. Tabitha remembered the statement quite well because it was the same year children at school had suddenly gotten it in their heads that she had a case of head lice. That had been a difficult time and nobody had gotten close to Tabitha since. Of course, with the addition of a pet mouse over the last year, her lack of friendship could perhaps be further explained by the misapprehension that she spoke to herself. Pemberley was a most excellent consultant in all matters, but he tended to stay out of sight, so Tabitha could somewhat understand the slanderous comments. Or it might have been the unfortunate, uneven unattractive, blunt-scissored haircut her mother was so fond of giving her. Or it could have been the simple truth that making friends can be an awkward and a difficult thing when it's a one-sided endeavor and you've a pet mouse and you've been painted as odd and quiet and shy, when really you're just a bit misunderstood. In any case, nobody at St. John's seemed lacking for companionship except her. But Tabitha reminded herself that there were far worse things than not having friends. In fact, she often made a game of listing far worse things: • eating the contents of a sneeze • creatures crawling into her ear holes. • losing a body part (Though that one was debatable depending on the part. An ear or small toe might be worth a friend or two.

The first conversation began awkwardly, although Espinoza had been expecting Pelletier’s call, as if both men found it difficult to say what sooner or later they would have to say. The first twenty minutes were tragic in tone, with the word fate used ten times and the word friendship twenty-four times. Liz Norton’s name was spoken fifty times, nine of them in vain. The word Paris was said seven times, Madrid, eight. The word love was spoken twice, once by each man. The word horror was spoken six times and the word happiness once (by Espinoza). The word solution was said twelve times. The word solipsism seven times. The word euphemism ten times. The word category, in the singular and the plural, nine times. The word structuralism once (Pelletier). The term American literature three times. The words dinner or eating or breakfast or sandwich nineteen times. The words eyes or hands or hair fourteen times. Then the conversation proceeded more smoothly. Pelletier told Espinoza a joke in German and Espinoza laughed. In fact, they both laughed, wrapped up in the waves or whatever it was that linked their voices and ears across the dark fields and the wind and the snow of the Pyrenees and the rivers and the lonely roads and the separate and interminable suburbs surrounding Paris and Madrid.

I’ve been trying to think of a solution,” Reinhold said, “and I could come up with only one idea.” “What?” “Marry me.” A burst of laughter tumbled out of her. At the flash of hurt on Reinhold’s face, she cut the laughter short. “You’re serious?” “Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” he responded. “Because that would be really awkward.” “It wouldn’t have to be.” His brows came together in a scowl. “I’d make a good husband, Elise.” Seeing he was, in fact, being serious, all the humor she’d found in his suggestion fell away. She studied his profile for a moment, the rippling muscles of his jaw, the maturity that had developed in his face in recent months. He’d been the man of his house for the past year, shouldering more responsibility than most other young men his age. Not only was he faithful and hardworking, but he was tender and kind. She’d seen the sweet way he treated his younger siblings, the same way he did Nicholas and Olivia and Sophie. He’d not only make a good husband, but he’d make a good father too. But marry him? She couldn’t imagine it. “You’ll make an excellent husband,” she said cautiously. “But you’re my brother and friend. It would seem strange—” “You mean more to me than a sister.” His voice cracked over his raw confession. “Reinhold, please don’t.” She didn’t want to hear that he had feelings for her. If he admitted he liked her beyond friendship, things would become uncomfortable between them, and she couldn’t bear that. “It doesn’t matter how either of us feel,” he said quickly, changing his tone back to the brotherly one she needed. “The fact is, if we get married, then my mother can’t say no to you coming to live with us.

Proxemics Proxemics is the study of how people use space. As a rule, people reveal how they feel toward each other by the distance they maintain between them. You can test this by observing people’s behavior in public. Where you place yourself in relation to others gives them direct information as to how you feel about them. Where they place themselves relative to you communicates a similar message to you. You can use this to understand the messages that others send to you, and to make sure that you in turn are sending appropriate messages to them. Different levels of physical closeness are appropriate for different levels of intimacy. Familiarize yourself with the four conversation zones listed below, and use the knowledge to interact more effectively: 1. Intimate distance: From actual touch to eighteen inches away. This distance is reserved for those people we are emotionally closest to. Sharing this zone is a sign of trust and an indication that one’s defenses have been lowered. When this zone is invaded inappropriately, we feel uncomfortable and threatened. It was the inability to recognize this distance that got Phil into trouble on his date with Carol. In dating, observing your companion’s reaction as you move into this zone is crucial. If you move within eighteen inches of your partner and he or she doesn’t retreat, it is an indication that the other person is comfortable. If the person moves away—even slightly—it is an indication that you have entered the intimate zone prematurely. If other indications suggest that this companion does in fact enjoy your company, continue to proceed. Most people will truly appreciate your ability to read them—much less awkward than having to discuss these things in the early stages of a friendship or potential romance! 2. Personal distance: Eighteen inches to four feet. This is the zone occupied by people who feel comfortable together. Eighteen inches is the distance at which most couples stand when in public, and the distance at which close friends might stand if they were having an intimate conversation. The far end of this range, from two and a half to four feet, is the zone beyond arm’s length. While this distance still indicates a reasonably close relationship, it is not nearly as intimate as the range of one and a half to three feet. 3. Social distance: Four to twelve feet. Generally the distance between people who work together and between the salesperson and customer in a store. The span of seven to twelve feet is usually reserved for more formal and impersonal situations. 4. Public distance: Twelve to twenty-five feet. The closer end of the span, twelve feet away, is what teachers usually use in the classroom. Anything further away suggests a lecture situation, in which conversation is almost impossible.

Silences like these were never uncomfortable for them, never an awkward space squabbling for meaningless words to fill it. It was acceptance, of a sort, an understanding. These were the people who had lived long and fitfully enough to discover that they were not alone, that there were people out there who would love and fight with them.

And you got over it?’ he asked. ‘It must have been tough if you were friends. Some friendships don’t recover from something like that: it can make things awkward.’ Thomas shrugged. ‘As I said, we had a couple of periods where we lost touch. That was one of those times, if you must know. We didn’t see each other much for a couple of years. But, we reconnected, and it became easier.’ ‘Just like that?’ ‘I said easier, not easy. It took time. I won’t pretend I was over the moon that she rejected me, but like anything else in life, I learned to live with it and KBO, as Churchill would say.’ ‘KBO?’ ‘Keep buggering on.’ Marr smiled. ‘Can you think of anyone who might have had a grudge against Anna? Anyone who might have wanted her dead?’ Thomas rumpled his brow. ‘No, not really. I mean, she was an ambitious professional. God knows how blood-thirsty it got

Why say it, Mr. Cohen? Dammit? Why’d you say it! The pressure! You pinned me! We can’t move anymore!' thought Andrei. Sometimes you must arrest the tongue to let your heart run free.

My anxiety fermented into a paralyzing fear. Something was wrong with Dante. How had I not detected it before? Had he developed some kind of obsession with me? He’d been so casual about our friendship, aside from a couple of awkward instances. He claimed to have been campaigning for my affection but had never once been forthright about his intentions. I had known he didn’t want me with Filip, but that was not the same as wanting me for himself.

Ideally, friends are people with whom we can be our true selves, with whom we can fearlessly let our guard down. (Arguably, a close friend is someone with whom we can allow ourselves to enter the daydreaming attentional mode, with whom we can switch in and out of our different modes of attention without feeling awkward.)

It had been different when I was the princess. Then I had looked at his flirtations with other girls and at least told myself that his heart lay there. It had been easy to think that, even though he always returned to me after every infatuation, he wanted only my friendship. And he must have held it in, kept his true feelings to himself, knowing that I would never have been allowed to marry a minor lord of Rithia, no matter what his parents might hope. I would marry for political reasons; we had both known that. There had been no reason to acknowledge that we could ever be anything more than friends. But still, it had been a thin façade, one that I could have seen through, if I had wanted to. And when I was no longer the princess? Had I known? If I really looked, had I known? Yes, I had to admit, I had. But it was like knowing that you need air to breathe or water when you’re thirsty. Something I knew, but without ever thinking about it, without even really considering it. I had held Kiernan’s heart for so long that I had forgotten I had it, tucked away beneath my own. So, yes, I had known. Hadn’t his face inserted itself between Tyr and me, no matter how I tried to forget it? Hadn’t I felt somehow guilty when I’d kissed Tyr, as if I were betraying Kiernan? And hadn’t he come looking for me in Treb, hadn’t he been with me every day he could since I returned to the city? I had told Philantha otherwise, but hadn’t I felt strange with him for weeks, awkward, knowing somewhere inside me that things between us were changing? Or maybe they weren’t changing. Maybe they were just now becoming what they had always wanted to be. What I wanted them to be. Because I did. I had felt it in that one kiss, how things could be. And I wanted it. Oh, how I wanted it. But I had thrown it all away, by putting that spell on Kiernan against his will, by keeping him from doing what he thought he must do to protect me. I had seen the look of shock on his face when I used my magic on him. I didn’t know how he would be able to forgive me, after that. I had destroyed my chance at happiness with the one person who had always understood me. All to save the kingdom that had abandoned me, or maybe just to prove to myself that I was worth something.

She’d been lingering in his thoughts for days. Weeks, even. Okay, months. The friendship strategy had worked out well so far. They managed well together. The awkwardness between them rarely appeared anymore. He enjoyed her company. Her injury had effectively doused the sexual tension that had smoldered between them, allowing them to focus on getting to know each other. The more time he spent with her, the better he liked her. She was funny, witty, cranky in the morning, and soft and sweet in the evenings when she fell asleep on the sofa while watching TV. Watching

I don't want to leave.

Physical touch is one of my primary love languages. For those of us who share this love language, touching is an endearing gesture of affection, appreciation, and connection. It is not intended to be inappropriate in any way when we hug you upon meeting, pat your back, or squeeze your arm. For us, it is an enthusiastic demonstration of friendship. However, there are many people who do NOT like to be touched—men or women. In spite of our good intentions, touching can make others feel awkward, offended, and in the worst-case scenario, violated. It is crucial to be vigilant and socially aware enough that you can read people’s cues to know when to pull back and contain yourself.

This is the best thing about men’s friendships: most any awkwardness can be ignored by mutual agreement and, true connection being unimaginable, you can get on with the easier business of parallel living.

And when Mary nodded, Pauline said, "You'd better hurry then, you know how how is," and laughed to show she would not be married to bald John Keane for all the tea in China. In her laugh was every confidence Mary had ever shared with Pauline about her husband's failings, every unguarded criticism, every angry, impromptu, frustrated critique of his personality, his manners, his sometimes morbid, sometimes inscrutable, sometimes impatient ways. A repository, Pauline and her laugh, for every moment in thier marriage when Mary Keane had not loved her husband, when love itself had seemed a misapprehension, a delusion (a stranger standing outside of Schrafft's transformed into an answered prayer), and marriage--which Pauline had had sense enough to spurn--simply an awkward pact with a stranger, any stranger, John or George, Tom, Dick, or Harry. A repository, Pauline and her laugh, her knowing eye, for all that Mary Keane should have kept to herself.

When it comes to biblical counseling, friendship is central to the counseling relationship because it is a key aspect of the Gospel. Paul's words display it; Jesus' actions approve it. In Jesus Christ, friendship has its ultimate – that is, it's paradigmatic – display. He sacrificially gave Himself for the good of those he befriended – people who were awkward and troubled types, people who did not offer Him anything particularly desirable in return.

Captain Winston, I want to—” “Mrs. Prescott, I want to—” They’d spoken at the same time, only to pause simultaneously as well. He smiled. “Usually I would say ladies first. But I need to offer you an apology, Mrs. Prescott. And I’d appreciate you allowing me to do that.” “All right,” she said softly. “The other night, ma’am . . . I know I made you feel uncomfortable. When I . . . tried to kiss you. I want to say I’m sorry,” he added hurriedly. “I had no right to do that. And I want to guarantee you that you have no reason to feel awkward around me. Nor do you have to worry about being safe with me. I appreciate your friendship more than you realize, and your son’s.” His gaze softened and dropped briefly to Andrew. “I only hope I haven’t overstepped my bounds in a way that will prevent our friendship from continuing in the future.” Again hearing his sincerity in his well-chosen words, Aletta shifted Andrew in her arms, the boy growing heavy. “Thank you, Captain, for your kind apology. I accept, of course, and—” She looked away, embarrassed, feeling almost as if she needed to apologize, too, at least in part. Because she felt guilty for allowing him to think that the longing behind the moment had rested solely with him. Yet she also felt as though her apology would only muddy the waters. And life was murky enough as it was. “—I’m indebted to you for the kindness you’ve shown to me and Andrew. Feeling safe in your company, Captain . . . is something I will never worry about.” Relief showed in his expression. “So . . . truce?” She smiled. “Very much a truce.” She started for the stairs. “One more thing, if you would . . . a favor, of sorts.” She turned back and studied him for a moment, trying to decipher what that favor might be. “Since we’ve reached such an amiable truce, would you please call me Jake? And, likewise, would you allow me to address you by your Christian name, General Prescott?” She laughed softly. “My name is Aletta . . . Jake.” His pleasure evident in his expression, he gave her a mock salute before closing the door, and she carefully negotiated the stairs up to the bedroom.

The key to overcoming this schema can be summed up in a single word: acceptance. You must radically accept that you are human. That means you are going to be awkward sometimes. That’s okay. Real life isn’t a science fiction movie, and there is no such thing as a social robot with flawless communication skills. Let yourself be a human being, foibles and all.

When I close my eyes and think of her, I see her hands. She was completely unaware of them, but they were threaded through every word she said like melody lines, changing tempo and rhythm with her story. They were quick, jumpy but certain. “I don’t think we’ll be doing that,” she would say when something was ridiculous. Her index finger would draw a line around her sentence and stop, stabbing a sort of punctuation in the air. She had long, strong fingers. She wasn’t afraid to get them dirty. She wasn’t afraid to touch. She held my hand while she talked to me, or when we walked down the street. She played with my hair, absentmindedly, when she was making a point. It took me some time to get used to all the touching. She dismissed the barriers, the walls of politeness, the invisible personal space we protect. There was no awkward embrace with her, no hesitation. She hugged you tight, as if she might never see you again.

And you’re cute when you get all flustered.” She narrowed her eyes at him and put one hand on her hip. “I have no idea how Louise allowed you to survive childhood.” “It’s because I’m younger and he was always bigger.” Louise came around the side of the truck. “We’re going to borrow your four-wheeler, if you don’t mind.” “Of course.” It wasn’t really hers. Not like she paid for it or anything. But Palmer always referred to it as hers, and so did Louise. And like just now, Louise asked before she hopped on it. “Hi, Tella,” Ames said when she saw Tella’s head poke around the pickup. Even though they were baling hay, Tella still wore the hockey jersey she loved. “Hi, Aunt Ames.” “Okay, Tella. Let’s run down to the house, so we can get back and work a little longer.” “Can I drive?” Louise looked back at Ames with raised brows. “Sure, if your mom says it’s okay.” Tella grinned. “It should be. She let me drive Uncle Palmer’s pickup out here.” “By yourself?” Tella nodded. “Wow. Make sure you wear your seatbelt just in case the wheels fall off.” “Hey.” Palmer put on a mock-hurt expression and wrapped an arm around Ames’s head like he was going to put her in a headlock. “That wasn’t nice. I don’t say mean things like that about your car.” The four-wheeler started, and the motor faded slowly into the distance. Palmer’s arm loosened and dropped to her shoulders. The weight of it there felt good and right. She straightened in his embrace. Maybe they’d never bale hay together again. She looked up into his clear, blue eyes. Eyes that held no guile. Just genuine honesty. And admiration. “You’re beautiful. With or without sunburned cheeks.” His arm tightened. What had simply been his arm around her shoulder became Palmer hugging her. Still maybe in line with friendship, but so close to more. She wanted more. But she wanted his friendship, too. Could she have both? Their kiss hadn’t made anything awkward. She tossed her head, moving closer until they were touching. “That

The ten-year reunion had been an odd experience. I’d gone mostly out of curiosity, but had found the evening awkward and anticlimactic. Most people had turned out to be exactly who I’d expected them to be. Our class had produced no celebrities or mega successes. Everyone had extremely mundane and commonplace jobs, except for Donal Larkin’s twin sister Shannon, who’d joined the State Department. There had been a lot of strained small talk with people who didn’t remember me, as well as a few uncomfortable conversations with people I’d forgotten who remembered me well. One woman whose name and face rang no bell whatsoever had proudly produced her yearbook to show off the heartfelt note I’d written to her. There on the page, in my own handwriting, was a lengthy message I had no memory of writing, extolling our meaningful and abiding friendship. The whole experience had been unsettling. I wasn’t particularly looking forward to repeating it, but I supposed since I was on the reunion committee now I had no choice but to attend the thirty-year.

Just like the kurit, they wanted to hear her tales more than tell their own, and at first, it was quite uncomfortable for Catti-brie. She thought of her arguments with Drizzt, and felt rather awkward now with this clear evidence of orcs who were worthy of her respect and friendship. That epiphany led her to quiet and uncomfortable musing that followed her to sleep—questions about her goddess, about the actions of her life, about her perception of reality itself.

We don't fortunately need those we love to be sane (or we would be forever alone). We merely need them to be able in their calmer moments - to admit to their strangeness with a degree of grace and good humour. They would ideally be able to tell us, before they have hurt us too badly, some of what is likely to be most difficult about living close to them. They will warn us about their bad moods after work, their awkwardness around their mother or their tendency to panic at airports. Their confessions won't magically remove every problem, but they will hugely attenuate their impact. We are infinitely more likely to forgive someone who has a good sense of what they need to be forgiven for than someone who maintains their innocence against all odds.

Nowadays, when I’m talking to young people, I’ll often hear them express fear or hesitation about exactly this moment in a new friendship—that hinge point when you make the move from Nice to meet you to Hey, let’s hang out. They’ll say it feels weird and awkward to pursue a potential friend, to ask someone to have coffee or get together outside of work or school, or to try talking face-to-face with someone they’ve only known online. They worry about appearing too eager, thinking it makes them seem desperate or uncool. They are afraid to take that risk, worried about rejection. Their fears—no surprise—become their limits this way.

The simple truth is that making a friend involves taking a risk, which of course means swallowing a little fear. Friendship can be, at least at first, an emotional gamble—much like dating. You need to show something of yourself in order for it to work. And in showing yourself, you open yourself to being judged or even rejected. You have to be willing to accept the possibility that maybe, for any number of good reasons, you won’t end up friends with this person after all. Every friendship has an ignition point. By necessity, it involves a deliberate extension of curiosity from one person to another, and I believe this is an offer you should never be ashamed to make. To say I am curious about you is a form of gladness, and gladness, as we’ve established, is nourishing. Yes, it can be awkward to express for the very first time that you might actually be glad to see someone if they were to meet you for coffee or maybe show up at your birthday party, but when they do show up and you do feel glad, you both get the gift. You’re finding the light in another person, creating something new together. You are building a sense of home.

It could be the start of a story or the end of one, Will thought, as they headed out together into the cold, dark street. It could be a farewell, or the foundation of a friendship. It could be an awkward drink in a crowded pub with an upper-class man wound tighter than a neurasthenic’s pocket watch, or just possibly something else entirely, something precious and fragile that Will didn’t want to look at straight on in case he jinxed it. It could be anything. He might as well find out what.

Andrei was in an elusive period in life, much like a snow leopard. He’d spent a couple of years having successfully filtered out all that was terrible and ugly in his life, from old shoes to lifeless people. However, the purification finished and he had not yet found the glint of gold to replace the damned. He had nowhere to place his lifted foot. Instead, his moral foot hovered, awkwardly, a crepuscular flesh, trembling every night, unable to set itself in a correct place. He lived in that hanging imbalance every day, and some would say this period of searching takes a while. But to him, all it did was take. Not a while. The peace of his life just takes. And takes. And takes. While Andrei may not suffer from the heat of stress or common negativity that improperly placed feet do, he lived cold, in a void, without the luxury of finding a worthy arrangement for his leopard paw.

I’ve just spent the last few days wondering if it would be very awkward. I don’t want to torpedo our friendship.” “Torpedo. Interesting word choice.” I die inside. He smirks, which shouldn’t look sexy on a man, and yet somehow does on him. “Is that the only thing you’re worried about?” “Of course. Aren’t you?” “Fuck no.” “You’re not? But what if it’s awkward?” “It won’t be.” “Really? How do you know?” He stares at me with knowing brown eyes while I wait for him to explain. And he does—just not the way I’m expecting. Instead of using words, he puts his hands on my waist. My back hits the wagon, and his hot, bossy mouth takes mine in a sudden kiss.

I can never be important to anyone.' 'What is to prevent you?' 'Everything -- my situation -- my foolishness and awkwardness." 'As to your foolishness and awkwardness, my dear Fanny, you never have a shadow of either, but in using the words so improperly. There is no reason in the world why you should not be important where you are known. You have good sense, and a sweet temper, and I am sure you have a grateful heart, that could never receive kindness without wishing to return it. I do not know any better qualifications for a friend and companion.

There’s an instinctive pause for my rejoinder, the rhythm of the moment collapsing under the weight of its absence. For the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel a yearning for my old life. I miss knowing these men. I miss the intimacy of this friendship. My sorrow is mirrored on the faces of my companions, an awkward silence digging a trench between us.

They lean into each other, entwine arms and legs, innocently, affectionately, and I look at them, their identical eyes and smiles, and try to imagine the divergence of their lives. Mitra marrying at fourteen, while her cousin begins life in England. Mitra leaving school to have children while Farah studies, learns English, grows up in London, maybe goes on to university. I stare into the soft faces of those girls and try to imagine them meeting again, ten years from now. Farah will return for a visit. She will wear fashionable clothes and will wear a chaador with disdain. She will speak a refined English and will fit awkwardly into her mother tongue; it will no longer hold her. She will have developed a taste for philosophy over coffee, will have grown used to speaking her mind, will have had many friendships and a heartbreak that will have left her unsettled but independent, will have become successful, enviable. She and Mitra will gasp when they see each other after all these years. They will hug and separate and hug and separate and kiss each other on the cheek again and again. Then they will sit across from each other staring, wondering how the other one got so old. Mitra will have four children; no, five; and will wear this, them, in her face. Her arms will be thick, strong, her hands calloused, and she will cry easily, not because she is sad, but because her emotions will not live behind her mind. Farah will be shocked to see her old friend and will think it pathetic, her life, all these children, this cooking and praying and serving; this waste. The visit will be pleasant but awkward, forced in a way neither of them expected. Farah will find an excuse to spend the rest of her holiday in Tehran and will return to England without seeing Mitra again. They will be cousins always but never friends, because each will have a wisdom the other cannot understand. The girls stare at me, waiting for an answer. "Yes," I say, "You will both be happy.

I'd just experienced that classic middle school shift when not only is your body growing in weird, awkward ways, but so are your friendships.