She will never know. Perhaps that is best. To tell her would be madness, to forget her more so, and to have loved her in the first place most of all. It is not a love born of knowing, and of true caring and friendship. It is neither a fairy tale love at first sight. It is a love at fifth sight, at sixth, growing slowly out of nothing into pain, the pain of the longing of the soul and the unwillingness of the mind and of practicality. Possibly it is not even a love for the girl herself, but for a construct with her shape, her face, her voice, her words, those that are heard, her scent, her eyes, her life, such as it is observed, her name, all these things and more enhanced by dreaming and infatuation into an amalgam of inhuman beauty. She that I love is not real. Make no mistake, it is love. Foolish, irrelevant, inconsequential, insubstantial, artificial, love. I alone among man know of this love. May she live on in ignorance, never knowing the flame that gutters within me, wishing it had fuel more substantial than wishes and fantasy. She will forget me soon. I will forget her later. And we will live on, apart, never having been together, separate lives that might have come together had the mind trusted the heart, and had the heart had room for one more in the struggle for it. Those that read this may know me, may know her - it is irrelevant. It is as irrelevant if she feels the same as I, as those feelings will never be acted upon. Fate contrived to see us together, but we blindly stumbled through fate's net, never to come so close again. We will fall into other arms, far apart, with the sole acknowledgement of what might have been written cryptically, far away from eyes that might make something of it. That does not change the truth of it. I love her. But she will never know.