I suppose you have heard of the Greek myth Pygmalion, wherein a Greek sculptor who holds the titular name sculpts himself a statue of a woman. As he molds her into the perfect statue/sculpture, he slowly starts to fall in love with her, even reaching the point of praying to Aphrodite to give him at least a bride who has the “likeness of the statue.” In the end, all’s great when the statue comes to life and he in turn names her Galatea. They married and had children.
But the point here is not the statue coming to life because that’s just pure fantasy. In turn, we’re all Pygmalions, sculpting our own Galateas (what is the male version of that?) not necessarily out of marble or stone but in our minds. When we see the guy we “love,” we’re not seeing him the way he is because we have a fictional one of him: the ideal one.
So then I am sorry if I had fallen in love with the fictional you, only to realize that maybe, just maybe, you’d let me down easy.
* taken from George Bernard Shaw’s Pygmalion