Never the film you thought it would be

The days dragged down by grey colour and inexplicable insomnia, when you realise how foolish you have been, what a child you still are and that life is unalterably ambivalent to individual woes.
How I thought that she would be somehow magically different from all other women, there was nothing to suggest she would be free of the emotional unpredictability mixed with unrationalise-able attractiveness that has been the author of so many heartaches for so many men.
What salvation she had offered in the interminable days of routine, a saintly relief in the closed-up shop of adult office conversation. She liked The Smiths, she cared not for the corporate world, she was also a perfect specimen of pale skinned, dark-haired broody mistress of apathy that I had long desired.
Oh those initial weeks when she never spoke of her boyfriend, when she would seem to place such great effort to respond to any of my emails, when she offered the compliments for my poetry that I had never received from anyone other than anonymised internet users. They were a delirious heaven of deception for which there shall be many tearful prices to pay.
The final death knell dragged itself over so many more weeks. First the realisation that the trip abroad with her boyfriend was not the argument-filled realisation that they were no longer compatible for each other, but rather a rekindling of their initial connection. How painful that night was as the self-created romance in my head splintered and shattered. I was to delete her from Facebook and turn my back on those photos of my imagined angel, well-thumbed and drooled over, the happy accompaniment to my dreams, my pre-sleep shell and my waking hours.
But then what cruel reprieve she was to offer when we were to meet up two days later. 'Who knows, one day we may just decide to do this', she offers tantalisingly, even looking sad on my behalf and shrugging her shoulders at her commitment to another man. Was there a flicker of hope in those words? Was there heart-rending regret in her eyes?
Those nights where I was to stay over at hers and lay in her double bed, progressing in the coming weeks to being cramped together in my single. What a sight of fulfilment for my deepest desires to wake staring into her eyes, to have her ruffle my hair, to have her ask about my sexual and emotional history.
But now here we are. I had laid all my cards plainly on the table, made it obvious to even a 5 year old child how hopelessly in love I was, with a taken girl. There is perhaps no more plausible end to this than a fading out of all romantic emotions and hope. I have ridden furiously home every night in the cold, the rain and dangerous winds anticipating a promised letter from her that maybe lays out some revealing segment of her soul, but to constant disappointment. I feel too insecure and ashamed and foolish to pursue this any longer. I can only write this all off to experience.