A conversation
"Let it go," she says, as her hand hovers over my heart. Her eyes, a deep brown, hold pity, sorrow, and understanding in them.
I look away, ashamed, "I have to see it through..."
"No, you don't. You shouldn't. You know there can be only one ending. If another was possible," she pauses and turns my head so our eyes meet, "you would know already if another ending was possible. You would feel it in your heart...in your soul."
I want to cry, to scream, to lash out and make this woman as ugly as I feel, "Nothing is ever sure in love!" I spit out the words knowing how foolish they are.
"Are you saying you love him," she asks the question gently.
"...I...," I have tried not to ever think of this question for the answer could be devastating. Even now, asked point blank, my mind whirls and I feel faint, "...no...I care for him, deeply, and I could see myself loving him, easily, but I do not love him now."
She almost looks relieved, "Then now would be a good time to let it go, before the option is gone..."
I don't know what to say to this. There is wisdom in her words, but I am unsure of her motivation. Does she seek to make things better for me, or just easier? I try to think of a way to say this when she reads my mind.
"How would it make your life better to be in love with a man who loves another? To BE with a man who loves another?"
I stare at her, dumbfounded, mouth agape like a fish out of water.
"Why do you do this," she kneels before me and pets my bowed head.
"He makes me feel...wanted...special...." I manage to say this despite the vice that has surrounded my chest.
"Do you feel special all the time?"
We both know the answer to this, and I stare at her balefully before I give it voice, "No...not when I am reminded of his love for her..."
"How do you feel then," she asks.
My throat clenches and my mouth twitches as I try to stop the tears from falling. They roll down my cheeks anyway as I reply, barely audible, "It hurts. It makes me feel like a fool. It makes me feel used, unimportant...miserable."
"Think," she says as she rises, "of how much worse it would feel if your feelings for him were deeper."
I raise my head, searching for the pair of eyes that have opened my own. I find them, just as they have always been, reflected back at me from my mirror. A pair of deep brown eyes that hold pity, sorrow, and understanding within them.
I look away, ashamed, "I have to see it through..."
"No, you don't. You shouldn't. You know there can be only one ending. If another was possible," she pauses and turns my head so our eyes meet, "you would know already if another ending was possible. You would feel it in your heart...in your soul."
I want to cry, to scream, to lash out and make this woman as ugly as I feel, "Nothing is ever sure in love!" I spit out the words knowing how foolish they are.
"Are you saying you love him," she asks the question gently.
"...I...," I have tried not to ever think of this question for the answer could be devastating. Even now, asked point blank, my mind whirls and I feel faint, "...no...I care for him, deeply, and I could see myself loving him, easily, but I do not love him now."
She almost looks relieved, "Then now would be a good time to let it go, before the option is gone..."
I don't know what to say to this. There is wisdom in her words, but I am unsure of her motivation. Does she seek to make things better for me, or just easier? I try to think of a way to say this when she reads my mind.
"How would it make your life better to be in love with a man who loves another? To BE with a man who loves another?"
I stare at her, dumbfounded, mouth agape like a fish out of water.
"Why do you do this," she kneels before me and pets my bowed head.
"He makes me feel...wanted...special...." I manage to say this despite the vice that has surrounded my chest.
"Do you feel special all the time?"
We both know the answer to this, and I stare at her balefully before I give it voice, "No...not when I am reminded of his love for her..."
"How do you feel then," she asks.
My throat clenches and my mouth twitches as I try to stop the tears from falling. They roll down my cheeks anyway as I reply, barely audible, "It hurts. It makes me feel like a fool. It makes me feel used, unimportant...miserable."
"Think," she says as she rises, "of how much worse it would feel if your feelings for him were deeper."
I raise my head, searching for the pair of eyes that have opened my own. I find them, just as they have always been, reflected back at me from my mirror. A pair of deep brown eyes that hold pity, sorrow, and understanding within them.