It Shall Not Be

I can't stop thinking about him. I expected time to dull the ache my heart feels for him, but the longer I dwell on thoughts of him, the stronger the longing grows. I find myself reminded of him in music, conjuring his image in moments of boredom. And were it but a simple lust. I feel it would be easier to cope with were that the case. But no, my attachment to him goes beyond the physical. My spirits are lifted merely speaking with him. A 10-minute visit will brighten my entire day. I find myself wanting to know everything about him; his thoughts, fears, loves.

And while the latter - his blinding love for another woman - crushes me, I am compelled to help him obtain her. I would be content to maintain myself as a friendly shoulder of support for his fruitless romantic endeavor...despite the sometimes-overwhelming urge to slap him, kiss him, and wake him up to other possibilities. I suppose my moderate contentment by being his friend and his overall happiness with pursuing his love are more important that confessing and crushing what little connection we've thus far maintained (as well as the connection between myself and my significant other).

I often delude myself into believing that he suffers the same silent torture I endure. I know it to be mere fantasy, but it soothes my soul to imagine him listening to heartbreaking music and thinking of me with yearning; to find remnants of me in the most commonplace of objects; to pen verbose confessions to be seen by no eyes but his own unless under a veil of anonymity.

The timing - oh, the timing - is wretched. As soon as I've convinced myself that I am nothing more than a supportive friend to him, I find a small tidbit that, at least in my twisted mind, is a reaffirmation of his affection. Be it an odd comment (wondering if a girl who can steal his heart has more right to it than one who won't accept it), or the inebriated haze of a misplaced kiss at a party.

If I am to suffer, could I not be spared the basest of courtesies and at least not be left with these delusions on which to ponder? An affirmation of unrequited love would still be less torturous than the potential for something more - something beautiful - that out of fear will never be realized.