Memory of Heaven:Romance Written By Fate Through Beyond Infinity Time-Chapter 462 If Love Is A Failed Sentence

Fitran sat in the abandoned library in the old city of Darnel, a place filled with the damp aroma of old books, as if every shelf held a thousand secrets and forgotten memories. The sound of the wind rustled through the cracked windows, creating a mournful melody that added to the eerie atmosphere. Dusty tables, toppled bookshelves, and abandoned scrolls reinforced the sense of solitude. Shadows moved gently, dancing on the faded walls, creating an illusion of lost life. Yet one blank sheet remained—one untouched page, unmarked by time or will.

There she sat. Her fingers touched the pen, feeling the roughness of the cold metal tip. And in her heart, one desire that had never been given form:

"I want to write love." "As a sentence. Not as magic. Not as a name. But as a testimony."

First Sentence

"I love you because you give me the world."

The ink dried. But the paper... cracked. A fine tear at its corner suggested that the paper too felt burdened by unexpressed emotions. The corner burned slowly, and the letters turned to ash. The system of reality rejected it.

In the corner of the room, Beelzebub watched with an unreadable expression, as if she understood every nuance of Fitran's unease. Their relationship was not merely that of teacher and student—there was another dimension enveloping them, a distance unbridged by words.

"Too absolute," she murmured. "Such a sentence... cannot endure in a changing world."

Second Sentence

"I love you, even though you never loved me."

This time, the paper rejected the ink. A lump of emptiness filled the atmosphere, and the sound of the wind rolling in from the open window added to the anxiety in Fitran's chest. She poured the letters back into the pen, refusing to be absorbed by the paper.

Across the table, Beelzebub gazed at Fitran with eyes full of mystery, as if offering an understanding of the unspoken lies. "What does it mean to love without reciprocation?" she wondered, confused by the depth of feeling she experienced. Around them, the library felt heavy, with towering shelves that seemed to speak of untold stories. The aroma of old paper and dust filled the air, creating a melancholic atmosphere, as if every sigh was a reminder of lost hopes. The whispering of turned pages and the rustling judgments of other visitors added to the complexity of the feelings flowing between them.

"Too one-sided," Beelzebub whispered from her corner. "Love is not a request. It is also not a sacrifice that thirsts." The movement of the pen tracing across the paper added a hollow rhythm to the room, while the dim light from the yellow lamps cast long shadows that seemed to dance, signaling a deep sadness.

Third Sentence

"I love you because we hurt each other honestly."

As that sentence flowed from her mind, Fitran recalled the bitter moments they had shared. Each wound was a reminder of presence, even though all felt painful. In every exchange of stabs, there was a hidden confession left unspoken. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall haunted her, reminding Fitran of time that continued to move forward, while her wounds remained trapped within. This silence was filled with uncertainty, and every corner of the library seemed to hold the story of a failed love, full of hopes that had vanished.

This sentence lasted longer. But it was not whole.

The word "hurt" transformed into a wild glyph, then shattered, leaving a hole in the middle of the page.

Fitran closed her eyes.

In the vast and dim library, the bookshelves stood like guardians of secrets; the scent of old paper and dust wafted, mingling with the soft whispers echoing in the air. The sound of soft footsteps on the wooden floor added to the sense of silence and dread. Fitran felt the softness of the old chair fabric where she sat, as if reminding her of the buried sadness. Every book she touched seemed to contain a love story that had never been revealed, and the dust-covered pages marked the time that had been wasted.

"If all sentences about love... fail, then how can I say that I love you?"

"Perhaps," she said, "because love itself is a failed sentence." "But in the sense:" That love is never finished being written." "It is always interrupted by doubt. Always interrupted by wounds. Always abandoned by time."

"And because of that, it remains alive."

Before Fitran, the blank sheet now transformed. She began to write herself, with ink that did not come from the pen. From within herself. From the Voidling. From loss. From love that was never named.

One sentence appeared:

"If I love you, then I must be willing never to say that I love you."

In the silent library, the aroma of old paper and melting wax filled the air, creating a suffocating atmosphere. How could one express feelings in a chaotic world? Only courage could turn every failure into a lesson. Among the towering bookshelves, as if holding stories full of longing, her footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet covering the floor.

Fitran looked at her. The ink moved... then stopped.

The sentence was not whole in structure. But it did not vanish.

It endured.

One of the Voidlings appeared on Fitran's shoulder. It formed a fragment of a sentence:

Fitran sat among the towering old bookshelves, the library walls exuding the damp aroma of wood, mingled with the scent of pages that had aged for decades. The whispering wind outside seemed to remind Fitran of the memories trapped within words. Every book, like every expression of love, held untold stories and secrets. The smooth texture of the paper beneath her fingers evoked feelings of longing and hope, yet also carried the weight of every failure she had experienced. Though eager to express everything, every word felt like a thin thread dangling between them. Beelzebub, with all the alienation surrounding her, seemed to be a barrier stemming from within Fitran herself. Would this unspoken love become a witness to their struggle, or merely a wall that further strengthened the divide between two souls?

"So all my failures... are love itself?"

The Voidling shook its head. Then wrote:

"Not your failures that are love. But your courage to try again—without hope of success."

Beelzebub closed her eyes. In her mind, every second they exchanged words flashed before her, the first smile etched on their faces. How loud the voices of the heart were silenced by doubt, yet never ceased to explore the darkness and light together.

The atmosphere of the library was forever etched in her memory, as if the old wooden walls were silent witnesses to all the buried emotions. The scent of dusty books, mixed slightly with the aroma of coffee wafting from a corner, provided warmth, yet also held the depth of complicated feelings. The rustling of paper and light footsteps among the bookshelves seemed to depict the anxiety filling her heart. As she gazed out the window, the dim light broke through, emphasizing the shadows of hope and pain intertwining in her mind.

"If love is a failed sentence... then let me be its punctuation. That has no voice, yet still makes it possible to be spoken."

Fitran looked at her, strangely, the distance between them seemed to narrow, even without words. In the silence, a mutual understanding was expressed in their gaze. They understood that love was complicated, messy, yet each other's presence was the strength that ignited hope amid fragility.

There was no "I love you." There was no "I choose you."

Only one movement: She held Beelzebub's hand and did not let go.

On that page, now only a long, shapeless line was written. Not a sentence. Not a glyph. Just a stroke. Within that stroke, there was hope that in every failure, they shared the conviction to try again. Even though their sentences were never fully spoken, every detail of touch and gaze created an eternal poem within their souls, like a work of art born from uncertainty, showing that true love does not require perfection to live.

In the quiet library, the aroma of old books mingled with the scent of burning candles, creating the perfect backdrop for these moments full of complexity. The soft whispers from the pages and the sighs of fear-filled encounters heightened the anxiety as Fitran and Beelzebub gazed at each other. The tall wooden shelves, filled with books rich in untold love stories, seemed to hold buried secrets, depicting the complexity of feelings enveloping them. The smooth texture of the book covers, often touched by their fingers with care, created resilient memories, as if every scratch on their hands held a desire to change the ending of the story that had been chosen. And beneath it, one small phrase:

"This sentence is unfinished. But I still want to write it."

If love is a failed sentence, then it will never be finished. But just because of that... it never dies. Love, in uncertainty and vulnerability, becomes the main force that drives them. Each with their failures and courage, displaying the imperfect humanity that complements each other, making them both stronger than ever.