Quotes About Unrequited

Episodes of unrequited love force us to develop a sense of humour about ourselves. It is impossible to think too well of who we are in their aftermath. Unrequited love edges us inevitably towards a basic humility. We are at last confirmed as truly ridiculous.

A slightly more conscious awareness of writing as compensation may lend us energy to acknowledge our unrequited ache for more visceral forms of contact.

I thought as much. Miss Murray, though I am a beast, do not think that I am stupid. I know that I am hideous and hateful. I am not loved, nor ever hope to be. Nor am I fool enough to think that what I feel for you is love. But in this world, alone, I do not hate you. And alone in this world, you do not hate me.

Do you know what it's like to like someone so much you can't stand it and know that they'll never feel the same way? Probably not. People like you don't have to suffer through those kind of things.

It doesn't matter if I like him or not, because he doesn't like me back.

Do you know what it's like to like someone so much you can't stand it and know that they'll never feel the same way?

In the whole history of my letters, of my liking boys, not once has a boy liked me back at the same time as I liked him. It was always me alone, longing after a boy, and that was fine, that was safe

Do you know what it's like to like someone so much you can't stand it and know that they'll never feel the same way? Probably not.

So for that split second I thought he was going to say my name. But then I saw the way he blushed, the way he looked off into space, and I knew it wasn't for me" - Lara Jean

What would that have felt like, to have a boy do something like that for me? In the whole history of my letters, of my liking boys, not once has a boy liked me back at the same time as I liked him. It was always me alone, longing after a boy, and that was fine, that was safe. But this is new. Or old. Old and new, because it's the first time I'm hearing it.

Do you know what it's like to like someone so much you can't stand it and you know that they'll never feel the same way? Probably not. People like you don't have to suffer through those kinds of things.

Tu sais ce que ça fait, d'aimer quelqu'un à un point presque insupportable, tout en sachant que la personne en question ne t'aimera pas

Do you know what it's like to like someone so much you can't stand it and know that they'll never feel the same way? Probably not. People like you don't have to suffer through those kinds of things.

Tu sais ce que ça fait, d'aimer quelqu'un à un point presque insupportable, tout en sachant que la personne en question t'aimera jamais ? Probablement pas. Les garçons comme toi n'ont pas ce genre de problèmes.

My love for her seemed doomed, hopelessly unrequited. There should be songs for this, I thought, but if there were I didn't know them.

Her laugh was a travesty. Which made sense because in a way, so was his apology. But what was he supposed to say? I want you until I hurt. Until I sweat. I love you with a raw, bleeding need that I've never understood. And all I know for sure is that you can never be mine.

But you might wonder to yourself: What if I never find love? After all, you can't be held responsible if you've searched for love, risked in love, even fought for love, and yet have always found it unrequited. When love does not come to you, it breaks your heart, but when you do not give love away, it hardens your heart. One thing stranger than our need to be loved is our need to love, which again leads me to my conspiracy theory: We are designed for love.

Oh, the pain of it, thought Lee, thinking about his children, oh! the exquisite pain of unrequited love. The only authentic wound, the sweet curse they inflict on you, the revenge of heterosexuality.

Everyone, mostly in his or her school or college days, falls for someone unachievable, whom they can't express their feelings to. It happened with me as well.

You like being in love with someone who's not going to love you back." She opened her eyes. He looked at her. "Why would I like that?" she asked. He shrugged. "I don't know.

She was not sure if she would want him to have known; we do not always wish for those for whom we long to know that we long for them, especially if the longing is impossible, or inappropriate. . . to be loved by the unlovable was not something that most people could cope with.

Many waters cannot quench love: the anthem's setting remained in her ears, repeating itself; a tune so powerful that it might gird one against the disappointments of life, rather than make one aware that our attempts to subdue the pain of unrequited love - of impossible love, of love that we are best to put away and not to think about - tended not to work, and only made the wounds of love more painful.

It was February sixth: eight days until Valentine's Day. I was dateless, as usual, deep in the vice grip of unrequited love. It was bad enough not having a boyfriend for New Year's Eve. Now I had to cope with Valentine datelessness, feeling consummate social pressure from every retailer in America who stuck hearts and cupids in their windows by January second to rub it in.

What business had I to think of one that never thought of me?