It's odd, this love I have for him. It exists and grows regardless of whether or not it is returned. It's slow and peaceful and painful and desperately passionate all at once. He's left now for his flight home, and I'm in the hotel with memories of last night and his arms floating around in the emptiness. I'm feeling alone and tearful, but happy? I wish I'd told him I loved him.

I know you know this. But I love you.