Where does love go when it's not returned?
Does it eventually fade away, becoming lost to the annals of time like a sock becomes lost in the dryer?
Or does it continue to grow exponentially forever, a constant source of torture for the foolish soul who had been unfortunate enough to experience it?
It festered. Slowly. Painfully.
It started with a tiny cut that deepened into a wound, edges ragged and torn. Hollowed it's self out and filled with infection. With agony. With loneliness.
Why? That was the one worded question he continually asked himself. Why was he allowing himself to be the architect of his own misery? Why hadn't he put a stop to it when he'd had the chance? Back the very beginning before he had gotten in so deep.
But there was no answer.
There was never going to be an answer.
