The thing about Love, is that it sucks.
A love story could go like this:
He likes her, so he talks to her. Later she likes him, so they get together. They’re happy for a while, then she says it’s over; he is sad. Later she is lonely and sad, not because of him, but still she wants someone, anyone, so they get back together.
The happiness comes back 2x or maybe 10x, it’s hard to tell. It’s better than life itself. It’s excessively perfect. Life is bliss. So now time moves on and they get engaged, then married. It all seems right, appropriate, foretold, meant to be, destined, unstoppable, overly-desired… Later its great. Then it’s merely good. Now average. First connected gazes, then endless sex, which ends, of course, in perfect cuddling involving intertwined limbs, that leads to nice kissing followed by a thoughtful hug making both parties think that everyone is satisfied even while deep-seeded questions swirl. Finally, after more time she wonders again, and finally he sees it; she needs more. She needs someone else, or at least she thinks she does. She has found her soulmate, her one true love, and he is distraught, mortified, and weak, so he lets her go.
The house feels empty without him, but at least she can seek soulmate in peace without her bothersome provider interfering. Once again, she is happy willfully ignoring his misery. Her soulmate connects with her on so many levels that she cannot explain. She has dreamed of him since she was a girl, and finally she has him. The new they are happy. But the old he is sad, he reasons, though, that he only wants her to be happy, so he leaves well enough alone. Meanwhile, in a very short-while, the new he has had his fill and with a false apology takes his leave; he already got what he wanted.
Now she is heartbroken.
The new he is satisfied.
The old he is ignorant.