Love is...

Dante couldn’t create a more vicious Hell than this. It would have been better if she’d had her throat slit in front of me, the blood drenching me like the rain in a romance drama, but instead of her life ending she has ended mine. And all with three innocent syllables.

“I love Chris.”

All I can do is smile outwardly as my heart stops and starts, sinks in my chest and tries to fly out of my throat. Lunch had gone so well; she’d laughed when I pointed out the spot of mayonnaise at the corner of her mouth and told me to behave when I threatened to kiss it off her. Just a few hours later my world is turned upside down, fire to ice, and the shock is all that stops me from breaking down in tears.

Unrequited love. A hell more vicious than any other. Having gone our separate ways for the night I can it ripping at me, tearing my heart in two. I’ve only just sat down on the bus but I’ve already gone through the past few months dozens of times in my mind. This is a worse torture than anything man can think up. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t appear in any canto. Dante probably couldn’t bring himself to write it.

I nearly miss my stop. It’s only the fact that someone rang the bell and the momentary shock snapped me back to reality that I spotted the pub near my stop. A few hundred yards later and I’m standing on the street, wishing for a storm, thunder, lightning, even a spot of drizzle and a stern wind. But nature goes on without reference to my life, to my troubles. On any other day I’d think the gentle breeze and slightly overcast sky to be pleasant. “I love Chris.” Three words, ten letters, and I become so self-absorbed and lost that I don’t even realise that my legs (presumably unaware of my thoughts; the feet are furthest away from the brain) are taking me across the road, down my street, and up the drive to the entrance of my flat. Complete autopilot.

The next day, I hold my mobile in my hand. The text message screen was blank seconds before, but I wrote and sent something I’ll never be able to take back. To the woman I love. The only woman I have ever loved. Maybe by sending it to her I thought I was saying something to myself.

“I hate you.”

Three syllables. Three words. Eight letters. All it takes to ruin any chance for requited love.