It's not love. It was never, ever love. When they sleep together, it's not love. Sex isn't love. And all the time they lie to each other, because they know what they can never have.
Whenever she calls him, he comes. Opening the door to her apartment, it feels as if the world comes down around him. Lying sweating, tangled in sheets with her kills him. And he knows that she feels the same way. He sees the pain flash across her face even as they climax in pleasure. And he knows that the same hurt goes through his eyes as he touches her as though she were a whore.
He loved her, she loved her, she loved him, and he murdered her. The never-ending story of hatred and unrequited love continues forever onward. They both loved the same woman, and that woman loved another, the same man who ended up getting her killed in a slip-up. They know that it wasn't his fault. Even when his golden head hangs as he gently touches the bark of the sakura tree planted in her honor, they don't blame him. But at the same time, they do.
In the ferocity of their kisses, in the height of their lovemaking, he isn't satisfied. Either is she. They both know that she loved them with everything that she had. She just loved him more. Enough to push him away from the blast that would have killed him. Enough to die for him, in his arms. It was his warmth that she felt, his tears that she tasted, and his words that she heard. And it was his voice that told them what had happened.
So when he fights, it is for her. When she cries, it is for her. When they lie together, cradled in each other's traitorous arms, however, it is for themselves, to heal the wounds and exorcise the haunting ghosts. They know that as she watches them, she hurts for them. But they don't see it; they can't see the love offered to them. So they choose their outlets, always making the same mistakes. They visit her, lay offerings over her broken body, love her with all of their beings, and hate each other for the pain. And then they go off and repeat everything, never looking back.
It's not love. It was never, ever love. So how come it hurts so much to leave?