Love and loss- they seem simultaneously so intimately entwined and diametrically opposed. Yet while you may find loss in the absence of love, you will be hard pressed to find love without loss. In this sense, they are virtually inseparable.
But let's not kid ourselves. Ultimately, they are nothing. Reified concepts given meaning merely by lashing them to a chosen string of symbols. As though they are boundless forms, intangible with no beginning and no end, until they can be conveyed to another, taming them, adorning them with tolerable and manageable limits.
Lacking substance, yes. Yet they cannot be denied. Love tingles and quivers with the absence of the impending pain of Loss; Loss pangs deep, steeped in the Love's sharp memory. A memory somehow richer than the moment what gave it life.
Why all the waxing poetic over mere emotions? Why, to head off any need to posit contrary conclusions should the urge arise. If it does anyway, poor reader, save it. I shan't begin to argue over such subjective trivialities. I am who I am, changing yes, but not with bickerings over the reified and mundane as though there were one, final and static conclusion. There is not.
A young woman finds herself in an unexpected predicament when she becomes pregnant by her former boyfriend. She prepares to share the news with her ex, but destiny takes a tragic turn as she comes face-to-face with the very criminal she should have informed him about. To her surprise, she discovers that her ex-boyfriend is now the one defending the criminal in court.