I've come to the conclusion that real love is not a possibility for me in this life. When I stop to think about everything that I've been through, it becomes all too clear.

I've never had a problem with worrying what other people think of me. It's what I think of myself that I've always seemed to have a harder time dealing with.

But really, what am I good at? What am I, one inconsequential girl, in comparison to the rest of the world? Or even just in comparison to certain people I know? I'm not much of anything.

I'm just the fallback.

When people get messed up, I'm the one they come to, because they know I'll always be there... Except the one person who needs my help more than anyone, who I want to help more than anything, would never go to anyone but also won't help himself... but that's another story.

What am I meant for?

I love to help people. I like to make other people feel better because I can't do the same thing for myself. Making other people happy makes my world go around. The only problem is I'm sick and tired of it being a one way street.

I want to be something that's better than I am, but I'm stuck, with no way to get out of this mess I'm in that I can only blame myself for.

See, the problem with having a giant capacity for love is that it means you often care about people more than they care about you.

And I wish for once that there was someone who could care that much about me... but it seems like the only ones who could would never admit that anyway.

And what do you do when you love someone who will never be and should have never been seen as more than a friend in the first place?

When the only way to get rid of the pain would be to let him go completely and not be able to even be his friend, when you both understand each other better than anyone else in the world does... how do you justify it?

There's no way to.

You can't lose him completely over a stupid feeling that you have; you have to learn to live with the pain... but then the pain drives you to do something stupid, which you then only tell him about because you trust him more than anyone else, and he's not even mad at you like he should be, he only wants to understand... and the cycle starts over again, because you know after what he's told you, and because he didn't get mad, that he's a hundred times better than he believes. And that makes you hurt for him more. And it makes you care for him more.

How do you get out when what's keeping you alive is the same thing that's killing you? How do you get out when you thrive on love in a world that's practically been emptied of it?