She would have done anything for love. Absolutely anything. And that's where she went wrong. She wasn't meant to be so idealistic in relationships. She tried to craft a love story straight out of a fairytale, but eventually felt empty from the hollow, soulless responses. How much could one extremely sensitive being endure? She didn’t recognize her own limits or those of others. Small gestures seemed like grand offerings to her. She trusted people when they promised forever, when they professed undying love, and even when they vowed to commit after years of waiting—just hoping for the smallest bit of affection in return, given only at their convenience.
I’m torn between anger and deep compassion for her. But I can’t reach out. She didn’t disappear all at once—she faded, piece by piece. No one is to blame, not even her. But I will blame her faith in the power of love. It wasn’t meant to destroy her and create me. I could have existed without this, without her loss. They call this transformation, this growth. It’s meant to bring peace and acceptance, making life easier to live, but she was pure, the embodiment of joy and trust. I will always look back at her—those bright, emotional eyes that quietly longed for someone to hold her hand. If we could have coexisted, I would have fiercely protected her from the world that was destined to break her.
