He had not forgiven, and he would not. He had no reason to in the absence of any recognition of wrongdoing, and it made no difference if he did or not anyway. It had no impact upon anyone else, touched no heart. He had not been forgiven either, even if a bad faith claim to that effect had been made somewhere he could neither hear it nor ever know of it, self-serving. He’d loved, a wasted effort, but that did not really bother him, as the feeling had been real … to him .. and that was enough. The small, ephemeral happiness it brought justified it, though it was followed by pain. Still, he did not regret it, only how he’d handled the latter. And, even that, became somewhat justified, when the scope of the deceit had been revealed, along with its accompanying malice. Think of that. Malice in return for empathy and longing. What monsters exist. 

He had not forgotten, and he never would. It was not in his nature to forget, to dismiss life experiences so casually, no matter how destructive. He could not just move on from such a disaster, become oblivious, transfer it away. That was a trick of the heartless, and he had never mastered it. But it made no difference anyway, as it affected no one else. 

People were not a mystery. Most were shallow, selfish, prone to making claims they had no intention of seeing through, though many hid it better than others. Hence, that it, once again, showed itself to be the truth, did not surprise him. He expected so little of people as it was, and now he expected nothing. And nothing was what he received. There was no amount of time that could reach a heart set in opposition to him, a mind that clung to its invented premise, a nightmare it had conjured from nothing and made real. His soul having once tried to tear itself from him to reach its desire meant nothing to that coy heart, regretless. 

There were no happily ever afters in the real world, no unification after strife, though people endeavored to convince themselves they had one or would find one, some day, just like most people thought they were one clever idea away from being rich and murdered their own hearts in its pursuit only, in the end, to find it elusive and what truly mattered wilted into sand. Time sped past them without notice, and, the next time they looked up, they found death was around the corner. Even those who seemed happy were usually hiding something, and the happier they were, the deeper the sorrow or sickness they hid, in direct proportion. 

That’s what he had tried to love without knowing. It was no one’s fault, but he was the only one left to bear its weight. No tear would ever be shed for his loss, and it didn’t matter. It had never mattered and never would.