I shall place my name among the men who were never chosen.
Long ago, I came to understand that love is never truly lost; it merely changes its address. It never dwelt within me. It always passed my door like a courteous stranger, tipping his hat before continuing towards someone else's life.
Some keep photographs, wedding rings, or scented letters. I keep farewells that happened before the first touch, silences that learned my name only so they would never speak it.
In time, I stopped envying those who are loved. There is an almost sacred innocence in believing that two abysses can rescue one another. I know human nature too well. I know that, sometimes, even affection is nothing more than a gentler form of abandonment.
I no longer expect love to be returned. Hope is a luxury reserved for those who still mistake the heart for destiny.
And if any pain still remains, it is not because they never stayed. It is because, once, I believed that someone might recognise within me the same ruin I recognise whenever I stand before a mirror.
Today, I walk in peace beside unrequited love.
After so many years, it has ceased to be a tragedy.
It has become the only companion that has never abandoned me.