I'm infected with love. It sits within me for years, apparently benign, then metastasizes without warning and eats at my insides, sends waves of pain through me, saps my strength and my will and my intellect, makes me doubt that I'll survive. I pull through at the cost of some vital internal resource, and think that just maybe I've cut the malignant thing out for good.
Years pass, and it returns, each bout worse than the last.
I love her. She doesn't love me. She never loves me. No further details will be forthcoming.