Loving her is killing me slowly, tenderly, almost sweetly, like being whipped with scented ribbons.
She never wears ribbons though. Those are for girls like Lana, bane of her life and supposed love of mine.
Lana isn't. She can't be. Chloe is.
Lana's just a conveniently unobtainable girl who I can pretend to fantasise about while I really fantasise about Chloe and the love that can never be.
Chloe would hate me for taking everything, every little girl's dreams, away from her. She'd never have a normal life, a family, a husband who could be with her and not have to leave to save someone every time danger threatened and leaving her wondering if I'd ever come back or if this time would be the last time.
Then, one day, it might be the last time, and I'd leave her forever, and her fear would be fulfilled.
Or someone would come for her, use her against me, hurt her to hurt me.
I can't let that happen.
So I hurt her now.
I see the pain in her eyes and know I caused it.
She'll hate me if I tell her. She already hates me because I won't, but not as much.
That's not what scares me though.
If I tell her, she may love me anyway, and I couldn't stand losing her, but I would, one day. Someday her blood would be on my hands, and my heart would break and my world would end.
I won't let that happen.
So even though it hurts me, I close my eyes and my heart and lie and lie again. I love her too much already, and one day it might kill the both of us.
That's why I'll never tell.