You want to change this. There is something fundamentally flawed in the premise, and these things are never meant to be taken at face value, no matter what Occam claims. This will take time. You will let go because this is something you refuse to do improperly. You will come back with your shield or on it, and be told: you will not. Be carried back.
For now, all you have are your intentions. Today was not so good. But you will try tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. Because your hand is clenched so tightly over your left breast that you would not give him over for anyone less. Not even yourself.
It is the irony that gets you. You are finally growing up and facing the vulnerability and it makes you feel like you're twelve again. Oh, you would wax poetic. Would that you could hate him for this, but there is nothing to hate. You cannot even use the time-tested and plead disrespect, because such a thought is laughable. The last time anyone garnered such loyalty and regard through so little, you were a child clinging to your brother with wide eyes.
Though, you don't understand much. The necessity of a heart that beats like the opening lines of Waldstein. The way the minutiae of someone else's life can mean so much to you. The way you rest your forehead on the shower wall and draw tiny hearts into the condensation. Still, for all of that, you took some things away. Skin under your fingers. Brief seconds in someone else's life. Most notably this: you love someone hopelessly as you haven't done in years. It rings false because you have no idea what it is to pursue, and it rings true because this may very well be that mythical selflessness.
You were due for this. You were due to learn how to love and expect nothing back. Your suitors were far braver men than you, for this. You'll try tomorrow to loosen the grip a bit. It might work, or it might not. After all, you would have no other. You couldn't. It tightens as you drift asleep.