The happy times are over, and now the tears start to fall. Unrequited love hurts, and this chapter is about that pain.
There was a musician. They were so talented, but the person they loved didn't see it. If only that person could hear the beautiful songs they wrote for them, songs filled with love and longing. But the musician only played their songs for them from afar, their heart aching with every note. They imagined their love dancing to their music, their eyes meeting across a crowded room, but it was just a dream.
Many people who experience unrequited love are poets and writers. Maybe that's why I write poetry too. It's easier to put my feelings into words than to say them out loud. It's easier to write them down than to tell the person I love how I feel. I write about them in my poetry, but I never show them my words. I'm afraid they'll see how much I love them, and they'll just laugh.
I remember the day you told me you didn't feel the same way. It was like a cold shower after a hot bath. I was so sure you loved me, but then it was gone. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of disappointment.
Some people keep diaries, writing down their thoughts about the person they love. But others just look at that person, and their eyes say everything. No pen or paper needed. Because it's not just "it," it's "him." He's the one I love, and my heart aches for him.
Unrequited love is a quiet pain, a silent sorrow. It's a feeling that lives in the shadows, a secret that only the heart knows. It's like a ghost, haunting my every thought, a constant reminder of what I can never have. I see him everywhere, even in the places where he isn't. His face is etched into my mind, his voice whispers in my ear, and his laughter echoes in my dreams.
I try to be strong, to move on, but it's like trying to climb a mountain with no rope. I keep slipping back down, falling into the abyss of my own heartbreak. I'm tired of waking up in the middle of the night, my heart pounding with the weight of my unrequited love. I'm tired of asking myself the same question, a question I can never answer: "How does it feel to be chosen?"
I know I should give up, but I can't. I keep telling myself that maybe one day you'll see me, but I know it's a lie. I'm trapped in this cycle of longing and despair, and I don't know how to escape.
I saw you laughing with her, and it felt like a knife in my heart. I know you're not mine, but it still hurts. I wish I could be her, but I'm just me, the girl who loves you from afar.
I scream, a silent scream into the void, hoping that maybe, just maybe, someone will hear my pain. I'm hoping that someone will choose me, that someone will love me the way I love them. But for now, all I have are my words, my poems, my silent cries for love. And I'll keep writing, keep pouring my heart out onto the page, hoping that one day, someone will see me, someone will love me for who I am.
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