There was a sickness there, the relationship was dying. Why couldn't I just accept it? Somehow I must have thought my loyalty would prevail, that my constancy would wear her down. She expected me to quit, but she'd be wrong; I'd never quit, I'd always be there, waiting, like a rock, like a planet; and eventually, inexorably, she'd be drawn into my orbit, drawn by the irresistible pull of my love.
But somehow the magnetic poles reversed, my very stability was pushing her away, and the power of my love was frightening her, only serving to increase that inherent sense of anxiety. She was slipping away, and all I could do was accept it, all I could do was let her go, and that was impossible.
So I survived on hope. The last resort of reason. That false sustenance that deludes the starving heart.