There's this amazing woman I've known for far too long and not long enough. Every time I see her, my heart breathes, my day seems brighter, in short, all of the symptoms one might expect from, perhaps, love. But other than a brighter gleam in my eye, a goofy smile, and some all too rare genuine expressions of joy, I've never had the courage to tell her how I feel. My life is brighter having her in it, and I could never bring myself to tell her the words, and now it's too late. She's been seriously involved with some guy for a month or two, and hearing her talk about him, I see a light I've only rarely seen in her, and selfish bastard that I can be, all I can do is be glad that she's found someone who can make her happy, who sends her flowers just because she's had a crappy day, who's more of a man than I am. It hurts me deeper than I can express, but I'm happy for her. I wish her well, I wish her all that she's hoped for in life and more, but most of all, I wish I had told her before it was too late. I wish I hadn't been such a fucking coward for too long. This is my confession. This is my burden and my everlasting shame, my private hell of my own making.