The Rest of My Life, Written Only for You

She used to bring him all her bubbling excitement to share, laying every bit of her affection before him.

But all he gave her was silent indifference. Even half a sentence in reply became too much to hope for.

She watched the faint traces of warmth in his writing, and the indistinct women fluttering around him.

At last, she understood: she had never been the exception, only an amusement he could take or leave.

When her love had been doused with cold water again and again, she drew a line under their relationship with her own hand. She ended things with courtesy, turned toward her own future, and never looked back.

Only after she had vanished completely did the man who had once taken her for granted panic.

He cut off every flirtation, blocked her path, and begged her with reddened eyes, humbling himself in the dust.

But she only smiled faintly, not a ripple in her eyes:

"I stopped wanting your belated affection a long time ago."

She once filled page after page with all the happiness in her heart for him.

For the rest of her life, she will write only of devotion, but never another word for him.