a narrative piece describing a unique case of unrequited love. In this case, the narrator acknowledges a desire to love back, but can’t seem to conclude if it’s really love or just empathy.
Life is a moment. Hereafter is uncertain. People die of common sense, or a lack of it, one lost moment at a time. I know this because I have experienced what it’s like to lose someone, one moment at a time.
This is the true story of my very great love. In the hope that she will not read this and hate me, I have withheld many revealing details: her name, how we met and any telling information about her. All the same, I cannot help but write this for her. To tell her:
“I am sorry for every word I said and wrote to change you, or how you felt about me. I’m sorry for many things. I could not see you when you were here. And now that you are gone, I see you everywhere.”
Haven experienced her disappearance, I am now conscious of how important it is for people to be seen.
She came to me wholly herself. I was just lucky enough to be there to catch her. If only it were possible to love without injury; fidelity isn’t enough. The hurt is in the act of possession. We are too small in mind and body to possess another person without pride, or to be possessed without humiliation.
I would love to share with you some of the things I remember about her; about us. But memory plays tricks. Memory is another word for story, and nothing is more unreliable. However, I believe truth can be borrowed across time without perishing. I will not allow emotions to colour my perceptions, so I will share my sacrament of memory of her with you; not too much though, just a glimpse.
Indeed, glimpses are really all that I have to share, because my feelings about her seem like a dream. They seem like they happened to someone else in some faraway place.
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