An unrequited love dies not in a dramatic flourish, but in a quiet, almost imperceptible fade.
It begins with hope—a hope that stubbornly refuses to surrender, that clings to every smile, every kind word, as though these fragile moments might somehow bloom into something more.

But time, with its relentless passage, wears away at this hope, turning it brittle and fragile, until it cracks under the weight of reality.

The heart, once aflame with the fire of longing, begins to cool. The dreams that once filled the mind with vivid, aching desire grow dim and distant, like stars fading into the dawn.

The object of affection remains unchanged, oblivious, perhaps, or simply indifferent. Their presence, once electrifying, now brings a quiet resignation, a dull ache rather than the sharp pain of unmet desire.

There is no single moment when unrequited love dies. It is a slow unraveling, a gentle loosening of the bonds that once held the heart captive. The day comes when the heart no longer leaps at the sight of them, when their voice no longer echoes in the chambers of your mind. And in this stillness, you realize that what once was, what could never be, has finally been laid to rest.

Unrequited love dies with a whisper, not a cry. It leaves behind not a gaping wound, but a faint scar, a quiet memory of a longing that once was. It fades into the background, becoming just another story in the long narrative of the heart, a tale of what might have been, had the stars aligned differently.

And though it fades, it leaves a mark—a reminder of the beauty and the pain of loving in vain.