Deep down, she will be the last. This time was different. She wasn't a passing image or a distant idea. She existed in my life longer than anyone else I've loved. I saw her often. She stayed in my world. And yes, I even talked to her. More than once. Which, for me, felt like a miracle.
So what went wrong? I live with a strange illness — a constant feeling that nothing is real, that everything is a dream. Derealization, I think it's called. It feels like watching life through glass, never fully inside it, never fully awake. It makes connection terrifying, because everything already feels like it's slipping away. Still… this girl.
I swear to you, she is the most beautiful and purest person I've ever seen. And I don't say that just because I love her. I say it because after loving so many women in silence, I've learned something important: love has nothing to do with facial features, height, or body. Love is about the soul.
And she had both — the kind of beauty anyone could admire, and a soul that pulled me in with violent force. The reason I never confessed is simple: I knew she wasn't interested in me. I can read faces. I can feel energy. I can tell when someone's heart is closed to me. Her behaviour, the way she interacted with other boys, the way she existed around me — it all told me enough. So I did what I always do. I stepped back. I created distance. I chose pain I could control over rejection I couldn't survive.
Now life feels like hell again, like it always does. This time, though, I made a promise to myself. I will live like this forever. I won't chase what I want. I won't marry. I won't build dreams that require hope. I will grieve. I will read. I will write. And I will exist quietly on the edge of everything.
You might think, “What a jerk, falling in love with everyone. Love is meant to be with one person for life.” And I believe that too, but maybe only for the charming, funny, good-looking guys. For people like me, love has no boundaries and no ending. It comes without permission and leaves without closure.
And maybe, if life ever decides to be kind to me, someone will love me the way I love others. But until then, loving does not stop just because it hurts. I don't see this as tragedy anymore, and I don't hate the world for it either. Some people are built to observe life instead of participating in it, to feel everything without ever being allowed to keep it.
I learned early that wanting something doesn't mean you deserve it, and loving someone doesn't guarantee you will ever be chosen. So I write not to change anything, but to keep my feelings from disappearing completely, to leave proof that they once existed. Maybe one day she will read these words, maybe she won't, but either way they remain, breathing quietly on the page.
Over time, hope became exhausting, so I let it go without making a scene. Now I move through life with low expectations, not because I'm bitter, but because I understand how easily things slip away. This is not a phase or a wound waiting to heal — it's simply the shape my life took, and I've stopped arguing with it.
— written, never sent