She smiled at him – a satisfied, knowing smile. He blushed inside, knowing that he’d said the right thing, and the firey coals flared bright inside.

In the past he’d said stupid things, and watched her grimace – intelligent things and watched her grow bored. He’d said beautiful things, and watched her staring off into the distance, wondering where she wandered, alone, or in his arms. He’d said bold, brave, proud things, and watched her indifference; stupid, egotistical things, and felt her pity, and small, quiet, poignant things, and felt the tears well up inside when his tiny waves of love and hope crashed futilely against her cold rocky exterior.

He could never define his love – not eros, a desperate, possessive, sexual love, not philia, the love of friendship, but agapé – beautiful, but unspoken, innocent, timid, and fragile; never to be revealed. His love burned him, yet he never revealed his love for fear of extinguishing those fires. So strong was his love for her, that he could never love her.