I Burned a Piece I'm Proud Of

I wrote two love letters to someone. We were playfully flirting before and I honestly thought that the first piece would be taken the same way. I guess it always catches me off guard when someone doesn't think of me playfully. They always called me starlight, so I wrote about how their eyes were like magnetars, stars with some of the most magnetic fields in the universe. How lost I could get in them, how they hypnotize me every time. When I sent it and they read it, they immediately called me and said they'd think about it for the rest of the day. I was bashful about it. If that's the most romantic thing they've read, then I think they need better partners. I gave that letter my all, don't get me wrong, but how could you not write like that with someone like them as your muse? 
I was already working on another piece at the time. One involving the philosophy behind pleasure and denial. The day that I finished it, my sunshine called me and said that we should stop everything. We've been friends for so long and they didn't want to hurt me. I guess I understand, because I don't want to lose them either. They said it would be worse for me because I haven't had any firsts. I want to believe them, but it's always been them. For six years, my heart has been theirs and they're so scared and oblivious. They said they felt the same way just last month. I have faith that we would work out, and it sucks that they don't.
I burned the second letter because I didn't want the temptation to send it anyway. I respect them too much to cross that boundary. But sometimes I wish I could persuade them to find the courage to give us a try. A real try, because the devotion I feel is suffocating.
I'm not as heartbroken as I would've been if we were together and actually broke up, but I still feel a dull ache. Like they will always be out of touch for me. Maybe it's better that way.