Well, you can break his heart.
There was once a person that was in love with me, or I’d like to believe rather, in love with the idea of me, for almost 15 years. About half a year ago, we realized that it would never, could never, work out (we had grown too far apart characteristically and this is in no way the story of childhood-best-friend-turned-love-of-your-life). Though the story was appealing, and in the sunny California air the Jersey protagonists optimistically attempted to make something tangible/real from the clouds of their thoughts and past, it was always the story that worked - not us.
And since then, he has vowed never to speak to me, ever again. Do unrequited love stories always end as such? Must they? Into some tragic end of sorts. It makes me think that he’s still more in love with the story (as if I were Estella and he, Pip), the extreme feelings, than actually caring about who I am, and where our potential lies in being valuable in each others’ lives as human beings, as kindred spirits. Vaya, qué pena.
“I took her hand in mine and we went out of the ruined place; and, as the morning mists had risen long ago when I first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me, I saw the shadow of no parting from her.” (Great Expectations, by Charles Dickens).
