"With so much to discuss, he knew she would be there soon, but still it wasn't long before he fell prey to a dark pessimism. First, he imagined that she had been delayed because she'd run into her father; then he began to worry that she didn't want to be with him. The old ache returned, spreading from his stomach like poison. If this was what other called love pangs, they held no promise of happiness. As his love for her deepened, these dark panics seemed to descend on him even faster. He was well aware of this, but he was right to assume that these attacks, these fearsome fantasies of deception and heartbreak, had anything to do with what others called 'love'? He seemed alone in describing the experience in terms of misery and defeat. Being unable to imagine bragging about it, as everyone else bragged of love, he could only suppose that his own brand of it was abnormal, and this bothered him more than anything else."
You are Not Really going to Die, Sir, Are You?
Several Rounds of Bargaining in Which Life Vies with the Theatre, and Art with Politics
SNOW, Orhan Pamuk