People always asked why we weren’t together. Some were genuinely perplexed that two people with our spiritual chemistry took things no farther than friendship. Others needled, certain that we secretly wanted each other, or that one of us was hiding an unrequited passion.

My friendship with Scott sprang from business drinks in a small New England town, where I was working as events manager at the arts center and he was organising a music festival. As we started to enjoy the conversation and order more cocktails on expenses, we progressed to topics close to our hearts: movies, bands, outdoor adventures. He summoned a friend, Theresa, to join us and we moved on to a more raucous bar, and then another, our ranks swelling along the way.

Scott had a talent for picking up strangers. Charismatic, funny and offensive in equal measure, he was unafraid to talk to people or make a fool of himself. He attracted attention and divided opinion, but those who were drawn to him – almost always women – revolved around him, saucer-eyed satellites to his gravitational pull.

As our friendship grew, I stood by him when he cheated on his girlfriends and defended him when people in our community griped about his provocative comments and drunken antics. We laughed at the suspicions of others who doubted our motives with each other. Everyone assumed we were sleeping together, or had at least fooled around, or kissed, or something. So many conventional people in our small town; we were determined to be unconventional.

We notched up record-worthy hours in each other’s company, to the eye-rolling of his roommate. When Scott adopted a dog one winter, we took it out together last thing at night, clinking the ice cubes in our glasses of whiskey and trying not to slip along the dark, snow-packed alleyway.

That winter our friendship was two years old. I took pride in the purity of my platonic friendship with Scott. I took pleasure in the constancy of my position. He spun through women like a kid on carnival rides. He had aspirations to write and manufactured drama so he would have experiences to mine. “Let’s make it interesting,” he would say when we went to a bar or an art opening or a party. He usually did.

Some of Scott’s girlfriends lasted longer than others; some held privileged positions in his heart, far beyond the breakup. But the fact was, after a certain point they were no longer around, and I was.

He told his girlfriends that he loved them early on, sometimes in the first week. Their interpretation differed from his meaning. There was a correlation between how soon Scott uttered – or, more typically, let slip in half-sleep – the ultimate romantic declaration and the lifespan of the relationship.

I castigated him for such careless avowals. He was leading these women on, collecting hearts like scalps.

He laughed it off; it wasn’t his responsibility if people took him seriously. “I love table. I love chair,” he said.

When I left Vermont to move halfway across the country for a new job, we spoke almost daily, texted constantly. When, yet again, he cheated on his latest girlfriend and bemoaned the depressing state of his stagnant existence, I offered him a room in my apartment that was opening up for the summer. I hid the fact of his dog from the landlady and reduced his rent, splitting the difference between my cheaper room and his.

Scott drove across country in his battered jeep with his belongings in the back and his dog riding shotgun. Having closed the geographic gap, it came as a surprise when, only weeks later, I sensed a strange distance between us. Amidst the proximity of our shared domesticity, Scott had started to withdraw from me. No rounds of direct discussion, polite civility, affectionate overtures or total avoidance could bring us back together.

Scott spent more time with other friends. He visited greenmarkets with an old roommate and basked in the naked devotion of a PHD dropout (a man, for once). He found an ad in a neighborhood coffee shop advertising guitar lessons with a local musician. She lived nearby and, sixty-dollar-hour by hour, Scott ensured his admiration became mutual. Out came the whiskey and the indie playlists. Through the flimsy door that separated our rooms, I could hear his barking laughter, her vocals scratching through lyrics like a tormented cat.

I suggested things might improve if Scott moved out of the apartment. He agreed, then lingered. Eventually, I decided to take the initiative. Scott moved into my room, which was larger than his, its three windows level with the treetops on our street.

One day after moving out, I ran into a mutual friend of ours. I filled him on on the developments in the apartment, right up to Scott taking over my room.

“Well, he won that chess game,” he said.

Somewhere, my relationship compass had swung off course and remained stuck, pointing my heart in the wrong direction. I had a history of intense friendships, complete with breakups more painful than any with boyfriends. I remained on better terms with my romantic exes than my platonic ones. In exalting friendship, I had placed too much of a burden upon it.

Recently, I met a man in a Spanish language class. I had considered, before the first day, that romantic prospects might be a bonus. Out of eight of us in the group, there were three men. No, no, no, I thought within the first minute of class.

One of them – the most talkative, ADD-riddled one – turned out to be funny, intelligent and unexpectedly gentlemanly. During post-class drinks, he lingered to chat with me. He wondered if I were “cajole-able” for movies, as his friends were tuned solely to the wavelength of Transformers. He asked if I’d like to browse an art market one Saturday afternoon, which segued into eating and drinking on a Saturday night.

Maybe it’ll go somewhere – but we’re becoming friends first.

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Danni Silver is a pen name. She is a freelance writer based in Pittsburgh, USA, whose work has appeared in numerous magazines and news outlets across the country.