She was addicted to love. He loved himself. She needed someone's shoulder to rest her head on. He walked through the streets, his head held high. She needed someone to talk to, someone to share her deepest secrets. He kept his things to himself. She didn't believe in herself. The opinion of the world mattered to her a lot. He didn't care about people: Just followed his heart. She needed someone to hold her hands, to go to the movies, to pamper her. He loved going to movies alone. Or buying himself an ice cream. Their paths crossed. Stars connected. Intense sparks..... . . . Then, the raging black fire of unrequited love..... He took up the pen: Recreated that fire in his writings: vented his darkest feelings - on the serene white paper. She too put up the mark: only difference - she did it on her raw skin: blood, instead of paper. Pain, in place of pen...... Love doesn't change people, it just intensifies the raging bonfires of their own characters.