A Woman’s Heart: Conflicted Feelings for a Captivating Man

**Diary Entry – 12th October**

I fancied a man once. Truly fancied him. There was something about him—his charm, his presence—that drew me in. I convinced myself it was love.

And it hurt. No matter how hard I tried to catch his eye, he never returned my feelings. I’d laugh a little too sweetly, toss my hair just so, make excuses to linger by his desk, even left my blouse buttoned just low enough to tease. Still nothing.

Worse, he started paying attention to another colleague—someone utterly ordinary, older than him, nothing special. Yet there he was, chatting with her endlessly, fetching her coffee from the vending machine, gazing at her like she held the answers to everything. Soon, he was driving her home in his sleek car. *She* couldn’t even drive herself.

How could this be? I was younger, prettier—surely the better choice. But he didn’t want me. It wasn’t enough.

The truth was simple: I didn’t care to know him. Not really. Oh, I knew the surface things—that he was single, that he earned well, that his suits were tailored and his car expensive. But that was all. What mattered was the *idea* of him—handsome, magnetic, the kind of man you dream of falling into. I wanted him to be mine. To marry me.

And yet—what on earth did he and that plain woman talk about for hours? Texts, calls, sitting in the car long after they’d parked, still deep in conversation. That wasn’t love—just words.

But love *is* words. It’s understanding someone so completely that you don’t need explanations. Laughing at a joke before it’s even finished because you already know where it’s going. Speaking the same language, never running out of things to say. It’s caring—*truly* caring—if he’s eaten, if his father’s health has improved, if his back still aches. *Remember that old Sinbad film, the one with the clay monster chasing him? Wear your coat, it’s chilly today. Did you play rounders at school? There’s a line in Maugham… Look, the leaves are yellowing like old letters. My violets bloomed after years—see? You kept cacti once, didn’t you? One flowered, and you were so pleased…*

A hand to his forehead—*You feel warm, are you ill? Wear your hat, the wind’s sharp.*

And then, an embrace. Because he’s yours, and you are his.

To an outsider, it’s just chatter. Nonsense. But to those who love, it’s everything—the language of two souls intertwined.

I wasn’t interested in *him.* Only in myself, and in what I called *love.* It was hunger. Possession. The need to claim something desirable.

But you can’t claim what you don’t understand. Music you don’t comprehend will never move you. Poetry you can’t grasp will never be yours. And a person? If you don’t *know* them, they’ll never truly be yours. No matter how many buttons you undo, how many glances you send—it won’t conjure love. At best, you might stir lust in someone just as selfish. But then what? What do you do with a stranger when the hunger fades?

You can adore a swan—admire its grace, feed it, shield it from harm. Or you can roast it, make a fine pâté as Henry VIII once did, swallow it whole. For a moment, you’re sated. And then—emptiness. Where’s the beauty now?

Some people never learn the difference. They keep unbuttoning, keep whispering, keep hunting. Sometimes they catch their swan. But there’s no joy in it. Just fleeting satisfaction.

And trying to explain? Pointless. They don’t—*can’t*—understand.

Rate article
A Woman’s Heart: Conflicted Feelings for a Captivating Man