Sometimes, he resented his life. Resented it with a passion. He'd never said a word against his parents before, however much they deserved it. But it was their fault. They'd turned him into this - this poor excuse for a human being. Humans were allowed to love one another and, more importantly, say that they did. Jean-Luc wasn't human, at least not in that sense. Oh yes, he was certainly in love - painfully so - but he would never be able to tell her how he felt. From the earliest opportunity, he was taught two simple but lasting things (I) Picard's don't cry and (II) Never let them know where to find your weak spot. They were practically beaten into him - his upbringing was far from cruel but he suffered more than once for allowing a tear to escape when his father punished him for some other escapade. And now he was trapped by this terrible fear of being vulnerable with another person. Some mornings, he convinced himself that today was the day - he was going to tell her and damn the consequences, but by the time he got out of bed, he'd talked himself out of it. "What's the use?" a tiny voice would pipe up, "It's not like she feels anything for you anyway."
And it was true. There had been the odd moment, he would argue, when it looked like something big was going on but he'd always put these down to the heat of the moment passion and lust. There was no doubt that she regarded him highly as a friend but no more than that. He, on the other hand, was sick with his love. Some days he struggled to get out of bed, the dull ache was so persistent and, if he did manage it, one look from her with that tiny shy smile she reserved just for him alone was enough to make him want to fall to his knees and beg her to love him, to show him that he wasn't just wasting away. But she, his darling Beverley, she never did of course, because he never plucked up enough stupid courage to let her know. "And anyway," the tiny voice always said, "She doesn't love you at all."