too late
As much as she hated it, it was true. She loved him, and there was nothing she could do about it. The permanence upset her. Knowing that no matter how long she lived, that she would still love him was depressing. But she would never admit it. She could never admit her love for him. It was too much to bear. She could never convey how she felt. To do so would take years. The well of love would drain at a horrifically show speed. Perhaps, he didn’t have the patience. Perhaps, loving from a distance was better. Loving in secret. She reveled in this secret love for her entire life, each day destroying a piece of her soul at the pain of never disclosing it.
So, she sat in silent admiration for her entire life, until the final day on her death bed when he appeared at her bedside with three roses - which she would not live to see die. He said,” I have always loved you in secret.” Her illness had destroyed her vocal chords and forbade her from speaking, and it was too late. It had always been too late, even in the beginning. So she sat there and looked at him for a long while, paralyzed and unable to say what she had wanted to for so long. He laid the roses on her chest and, choking in his words, said: “I should have known you did not feel the same way.” And just like that, he turned around and walked away.
Her eyes revealed an unspeakable horror. It was too late. She had waited too long. Her fear of rejection triumphed the potential joy of love. He would never know, just as she had never known. Perhaps, this made it fair. But it was not fair. As the door shut behind him, she finally succumbed to her illness. And trapped in the locked room was an eternal love that the man would never know.
