If I say I’m madly in love with you, you’d know I’m lying.

Darling I lied to you, every time I said you were the best thing that has ever happened to me. I lied to you, nodding my head, when you asked me if I was happy with you. I lied to you, when I said I understand all the reasons when you didn’t call. Or drop a text.
And worst, I lied to you, even as I walked away, when I made you believe that for the brief time we were together, we loved truly. 

Unrequited love, cruelest of all.

There was something in his gaze. Something deep and raw. The way he looked at her. I got it then. He loved her, and it was killing him. He wouldn’t get over her, I whispered, he can’t.”

“…better left unsaid”.

How do I tell him that I don’t write anymore because it’s him. On my mind. All the thoughts. All the damn time. That even when I try hard to write something new, something people could relate to. I end up writing about him.