Untitled short story. No pairing, no characters. Tragedy.

It's a sad thing, to realize that everything you could ever want is right in front of you. You can't have it, so you'll spend your entire life reaching for it, getting so close, and finally failing, left with arms out in front of you, stretched toward something that meant everything, something that you could never mean enough to, something that can never be replaced. 
The worst part though? The worst part is that you'll be heartbroken, but you'll never let it show. You'll tell everybody you're happy, tell the world that it didn't mean that much, anyway. Lie, to yourself, to your parents, your friends, everyone you know. Say that you're glad you couldn't reach. You'll congratulate the person that acquired that something, and you'll smile, because that's what you're supposed to do. That's what's expected. So you'll bottle it up, and you'll try to forget. You won't forget. You. Will. Not. Forget. You'll be left, broken and alone, wondering how you ended up that way. Questioning things that you've never questioned before, blaming God for the tragedy, wondering why things couldn't work out for you, just this once. 
And you won't get over it. You'll think about it every second, of every hour, of every day, of every year. It will continuously cross your mind. You'll never get a moment's peace, thinking of what could've been. You'll blame yourself. And then you'll die. And you'll forget. But the pain won't end. It will never end. It'll stretch into the afterlife, a vague feeling of sadness and depression that you can't quite place. It will haunt you forever. That's a promise.