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What do you know of my pains of loving you.
Loving someone so much that you are their friend, and as their friend you wish them the fullest life possible.
The fullest life possible means I play a minor role. I am here to witness your travesties, but never being a main scene until perhaps, and only perhaps, the end.
Our love is a private endeavor. My pains are mine, and whether we are sharing them is a mystery to me.
Do you love me, or am I just manipulated, another object in your life that you have effect on.
I love you, loathe you, and fear you.
Fear what might happen, fear what might not happen; it is a constant battle where just a glimpse from you will make me swell up with happiness, or perhaps the same glance will break my heart.
In this way, I am forever more falling in love, out of love, and getting my heart mended and re-broken.
Is this healthy? No.
Is it fun? Sometimes.
Is it worth it? I'm not so sure.
But whatever it is, I know this much, whether deluded or not, I love you.
Oh, those who know the pains of irrational love and unfulfilled love - I empathize with you.
Perhaps all the love I need is imagined - I imagine us, the hurt, supporting each other.
And maybe, at least for the next five minutes, that's enough.

If only you could choose whom you loved.