Cross Stitch
She was perfectly etched on his heart, like a silent cross stitch, waiting patiently for him to forget the times they shared.
She was something he could never have, never touch, never taste, never smell.
She was the joy of his life, from the first sweet day they met (he could of sworn he heard a perfect harmony of violins and birds in the distance) to the last tragic day of her life.
He loved her dearly and treated her with the utmost respect.
He would always regard her with adoration and hidden affection, no matter what the consequences.
He would stand strong, waiting for attention in the fiercest blizzards, just for her.
He would douse the fiercest of flames, just for her, and only her.
Such tragic feelings came to him when she confessed that she loved another.
He simply closed his eyes, or, eye in this case, and shook his head.
He gave her his words of congratulations, and as she raised a hand to comfort him gently, he pushed her away and just left.
Silent tears. Betrayed feelings. Stolen love.
"Do you, Kotone, choose to live your life happily with Morty?"
"...I do!"
"And do you, Morty, choose to live your life happily with Kotone?"
"I do."
"You may kiss the bride."
He ran, with his greatest strength, away from the church.
His heart ached in agony, it seared with pain, and it trembled with depression.
He ripped his tie off from his tuxedo, and discarded it in the lake.
He never gave up on her feelings, even in the future, where she invited him to her newborn's 1st birthdate.
He sighed.
She was never available now.
He'd never get his happy ending.
To him, she was everything.
To her, he was a friend, a pal, an ally.
But to the both of them, they were soul mates that never got their happy ending.
He was etched in a corner of her heart, never surfacing to meet the feelings.
She was etched firmly into his heart and soul, waiting silently, just like an unfinished cross stich, abandoned by a small child.
He turned around and dug around in his drawer for his most cherished possession-ah, there it is.
It was white, with rainbow colored strings covering the cloth.
She had given it to him on his birthday, never knowing that he would cherish it forever.
It was of no use to him now-he would dispose of it.
He left the room, and on the way out, tossed the cloth into the trash.
The next day, the maid came by.
"What's this cross stitch doing here...?"