The Anguish of Love Unconfessed
It is a great and romantic tragedy, that love which cannot be expressed or revealed but burns in the heart like the hottest fire. It is distant, reserved, secret. The loving gaze must be directed to the ground or some far-off thing, lest the beloved see it in my eyes. Those three sacred words seem to be at the tip of my tongue, but they must be held back. They must. For if they came out, the world would come crashing down. Oh how I wish I could just scream it! In my head I rehearse such a scenario over and over, and there it stays, in my imagination forever. No, it can never be said. After all, reception is not guaranteed. Their response could be negative. It could be disastrous. Worst of all, if my love is not received, then the now-existing love of two friends would be naught. And yet, if my love is never confessed, I would die with a regret the weight of which would crush my soul. I would die having failed to tell someone of a most wonderful, profound, and personal truth. And what if they receive it well? It seems so impossible that the imagination fails to capture what might occur. No, it cannot ever be said. Those words must be held back, even if they are there, always dying to be said for them to hear. Perhaps to die with such a tragic and romantic regret is my fate. And yet...
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