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Unrequited Love Quotes

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Unrequited Love Quotes

“I would have followed you to hell and back... if only you'd lead me back.”

“I have poured my heart out …. And now I am empty.”

“I didn’t love you to seek revenge. I didn’t love you out of loneliness or unhappiness. I didn’t love you for any of the misguided reasons that time might convince you I did. I just loved you because you’re you.”

“It’s times like this…. when it’s over a year later and I’m still crying over you that I want to turn to you and say: See…. This is why I asked you never to kiss me.”

“I try to do something positive – I socialise more… But deep down I know the truth. An entire world of people can never replace the one that I’ve lost.”

“They say “Follow your heart”…. …. But I can’t follow you where you’re going…”

“It is the deepest of wrongs I am driven to write…. And losing you was one of them.”

“Some people will hate you for not loving them.”

“We are way less likely to love someone just because they love us than we are to hate someone just because they hate us.”

“The only place I ever felt at home was with you. There isn’t a place for me anywhere anymore… I’ve been evicted.”

“According to science/religion/philosophy, there is a part/piece/place in our body that is the source of our energy. It has no end or beginning. It is the concentration of everything that we are made up of. It is our version of the Chicago-fire that burns us down, only to make us emerge from our ashes like the Phoenix. It makes us who we are. Unfortunately, it hasn’t been named yet. They can’t find a word in any language that can explain the sheer beauty and infinite power that it holds. They must have never met you. If it were up to me, I would have named “it” after you. You.”

“I loved you unconditionally — for you, not for anything else. I loved you without ever seeing you, without even hearing your voice. I loved you despite everything, and never grew tired. I loved you with complete honesty, as if you were my first… and last love. And yet, all of that was not enough. You were the punishment I deserved… as if love itself were my sin.”

“And for the four remaining days - the ninety-six remaining hours - we mapped out a future away from everything we knew. When the walls of the map were breached, we gave one another courage to build them again. And we imagined our home an old stone barn filled with junk and wine and paintings, surrounded by fields of wildflowers and bees. I remember our final day in the villa. We were supposed to be going that evening, taking the sleeper back to England. I was on edge, a mix of nerves and excitement, looking out to see if he made the slightest move toward leaving, but he didn’t. Toiletries remained on the bathroom shelves, clothes stayed scattered across the floor. We went to the beach as usual, lay side by side in our usual spot. The heat was intense and we said little, certainly nothing of our plans to move up to Provence, to the lavender and light. To the fields of sunflowers. I looked at my watch. We were almost there. It was happening. I kept saying to myself, he’s going to do it. I left him on the bed dozing, and went out to the shop to get water and peaches. I walked the streets as if they were my new home. Bonjour to everyone, me walking barefoot, oh so confident, free. And I imagined how we’d go out later to eat, and we’d celebrate at our bar. And I’d phone Mabel and Mabel would say, I understand. I raced back to the villa, ran up the stairs and died. Our rucksacks were open on the bed, our shoes already packed away inside. I watched him from the door. He was silent, his eyes red. He folded his clothes meticulously, dirty washing in separate bags. I wanted to howl. I wanted to put my arms around him, hold him there until the train had left the station. I’ve got peaches and water for the journey, I said. Thank you, he said. You think of everything. Because I love you, I said. He didn’t look at me. The change was happening too quickly. Is there a taxi coming? My voice was weak, breaking. Madame Cournier’s taking us. I went to open the window, the scent of tuberose strong. I lit a cigarette and looked at the sky. An airplane cast out a vivid orange wake that ripped across the violet wash. And I remember thinking, how cruel it was that our plans were out there somewhere. Another version of our future, out there somewhere, in perpetual orbit. The bottle of pastis? he said. I smiled at him. You take it, I said. We lay in our bunks as the sleeper rattled north and retraced the journey of ten days before. The cabin was dark, an occasional light from the corridor bled under the door. The room was hot and airless, smelled of sweat. In the darkness, he dropped his hand down to me and waited. I couldn’t help myself, I reached up and held it. Noticed my fingertips were numb. We’ll be OK, I remember thinking. Whatever we are, we’ll be OK. We didn’t see each other for a while back in Oxford. We both suffered, I know we did, but differently. And sometimes, when the day loomed gray, I’d sit at my desk and remember the heat of that summer. I’d remember the smells of tuberose that were carried by the wind, and the smell of octopus cooking on the stinking griddles. I’d remember the sound of our laughter and the sound of a doughnut seller, and I’d remember the red canvas shoes I lost in the sea, and the taste of pastis and the taste of his skin, and a sky so blue it would defy anything else to be blue again. And I’d remember my love for a man that almost made everything possible./”

“If you ever read this, maybe one night when you’ll be free, You’ll say, ‘The crazy girl wrote a stupid book about me.’ Please don’t read this book, with your friends. Read it in your bed, alone, on a night just by yourself. Don’t laugh at it with that gorgeous girl who got great hair, Just one time, behave like the guy, my friends say, is rare. Dim the lights, read between the lines. Frown and smile and roll your eyes. But please don’t read in rush. It’s just a wishful thinking, but I hope, that night, when you’ll close your eyes, maybe just one time. You’ll think of us. Maybe that’ll be our song, and I’ll call it a love song.”

“My eye slipped past your supple face, My hand missed all your subtle grace, My mind ignored your sumpt’us thoughts, But my heart, oh, it missed you naught. For though it have no sight nor voice, To my heart there was but one choice. My brain may dream of castles in the sky, My eyes flitter to glints of a magpie, My ears caress songs beyond the sea, But my heart, sweet heart, belongs only to thee. Time that it needs to grow strong, To whisper in my ear, to find the song, To shower my eyes with what is true, To tell my mind it’s always been you.”

“Khi lớn lên, thế giới không còn là sân chơi, mà là một mê cung đầy những ngã rẽ. Hà Lan chọn con đường của cô ấy, còn tôi đứng lại, ôm lấy những ký ức về đôi mắt biếc và những ngày tháng chúng tôi từng thuộc về nhau. Tôi không trách cô ấy, vì tôi biết, có những người sinh ra để ta yêu, nhưng không sinh ra để ta ở bên.”

“Nostalgia is old hat,” Carol says. Carol tears down the yellow leaflets, pinup girls, and wallpaper garden. For a while everything is bare. A month goes by and it is Christmas. Carol only hangs up the pinup girls. Then she hangs up the wallpaper garden. The leaflets have been burnt.”

“Summertime! And summertime in my early twenties! And in love! No, better than that - secretly in love, coddling it up in myself. It's an odd feeling, coming rarely more than once in most of our lifetimes. In books, as often as not, they represent it as a sort of anguish but it wasn't so for me. Later perhaps, but not then.”

“She walked down the lawn and surveyed the world as they'd both seen it--the wild limbs of the leaning apple tree, the golden-brown evening sky, the black silhouettes of the mountains. The trunk and the branches of the tree had bent over the years, under the weight of the heavy fruit. One of the biggest branches had grown down from the canopy of the leaves, all the way to the ground and straight along the grass...the end of that same branch had begun growing up again, at a right angle, the wood bending toward the sky.”

“I loved him not; and yet, now he is gone, I feel I am alone. I check’d him while he spoke; yet, could he speak, Alas! I would not check. For reasons not to love him once I sought, And wearied all my thought To vex myself and him: I now would give My love could he but live Who lately lived for me, and, when he found ’Twas vain, in holy ground He hid his face amid the shades of death. I waste for him my breath Who wasted his for me! but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burns With stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weep Tears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears. Merciful God! such was his latest prayer, These may she never share. Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold, Than daisies in the mould, Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life’s brief date. Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be, And oh! pray too for me!”

“She had assumed they would see each other every day but she hadn’t really thought about the implications of having an affair with a married man. It wasn’t going to be a normal relationship.”