I do not think that I am incapable of love. I am merely unaccustomed to hurting in the way that loving hurts. The nature of real love is that it doesn't have to be reciprocated in order to exist. Love is not a choice.
As it is, love steals away all my control until the underdeveloped, malnourished bits of my heart swim haphazardly through my arteries and clog the rational thought in my brain.
We do stupid things for love. Stupid things like not speaking the word to the people we care for most because we fear hurting them.
I think that I love my mother, and I think that she must have loved me. Love does not always feel good, because it can so easily mix with other feelings, like bitterness and remorse and anger. Guilt. Love is a magnet for emotion, emotions that will conglomerate endlessly upon themselves if one is not careful.
Then again, even if they are careful, it's impossible to stop the process.
I cannot tell my sister that I love her. Love brings about terrible things. If she does not love me, she cannot hate me. If she feels nothing, she will not feel toward me what I feel toward her people.
I cannot tell Yukina because once I open myself up to experiencing her inevitable anger and disappointment, I will have lost something most precious to me. I cannot bring myself to sacrifice what little good I have with her just for the chance of having more, even if it leaves us both dissatisfied.
I'm not a gambler, after all. In this case, my bartering chips are more valuable than life: They are my company. I would prefer to know only a piece of real love if the risk of knowing more would mean putting into jeopardy what little I already have.