There is a bubble: a fantasy of a happy place of cuddling by the fire and breakfast in bed. There is a taken-for-granted joy in believing that a love that doesn’t even acknowledge your presence will suddenly surrender all the world’s happiness just for your laugh. There is injustice, and there is wrath, and dissatisfaction because the bubble bursts and love walks away, not caring, not flinching, never realizing (because you never tell).
In a one-sided love, unspoken words harm.
There is no relationship here, but you love just because. And people have told you that this obsession is hazardous, and by bits you are moving into self-ruin. But you just feel, there is always this unavoidable feeling that there is completeness in the incomplete, even when this love ends where it begins. This love is caged in you, and the bubble is a trap.
The feeling stings when you see your love holding hands with somebody else. You realize that the vision that you had was blurry and unruly. The sunlight is stark and unforgiving; the reality has shaped itself in a steadiness. There is calm, a quiet which is deafening. A thousand hangovers are better than this pit. You feel that calendar tumble. And then another, and then another. Reminders and memories hit you, promises you made to yourself to stop this shallow determination of keeping this love alive. This calm is a disaster and you wish there was a portal that’ll help you see clarity.
Loving a one-sided love has left you fearless, because this love is unkind. Every day, all the time, you see a freshness in this wounded love. There is a hope that makes you feel that this penance of incompleteness is worth it. And, that this one-sided love has no pain of separation because if this feeling ever separates from you, you will be better. This one-sided love that you adore never knows your affection and so continues this tale of unseen, unsaid love. Somewhere down the corridor there is someone waiting with the same bubble. And each time your staccato halts, their bubble just like yours, breaks.
Because the love that is never expressed deepens, but dries. It’s a paradox when you’re the withering flower on the warzone loving a confused love that never says hi.