There's no question that it sucks.
To realize that you've gotten to the point where there's only one body in the world that your body will truly respond to. There's only one that fits just right; that goes into all the right places, fitting your body so tightly, so perfectly, that even the crevices in your soul are filled with the electricity of passionate connection.
There's no question that it's unfair.
Knowing that you've always done what you felt was right and truthful, giving heed to the faith, trust, and expectation of utter selflessness that you were entrusted with. To hold the warm gold of someone else so close and so tightly that air couldn't tarnish it and dust couldn't dim it's glow. To know that you were it's protector and companion, craving for the chance to be even more worthy of it's care. To hand your own heart, unprotected, to it's new owner for safety and affection, to never be returned, never be hidden from view.
There's no question that it's wrong.
To open your life completely, with it's rights and it's wrongs, without protection or reservation. To introduce your old family to it's new member, accepted as though it's been long lost, newly found, and knowing it had place waiting for it. To introduce your friends that would never harm you, never damage you, to the new member in the ranks. To trust that the love between the two and the care between the friends would never cause each other to be called into question or invalidated. To understand that no secrets need be kept within the circle, that honesty, truth, trust, and respect were the structure around with all other things were built, all foundation laid.
There's no question that it hurts.
When something that's been given to you freely, promised was true, believed would be there for you, isn't. When the signs that you saw and took to the altar to ask for understanding or explanation and discover for the first time with absolute certainty that what you thought all along wasn't real, and that the explanations and justifications were lies. That despite what you chose to believe, you weren't being hypersensitive, paranoid, or controlling... but were instead reacting to the reality that was staring straight at you, like a broadsword that's already down your throat and piercing your stomach. You know that feeling... that gut-wrenching tug that makes you question everything. But no. You're going to believe this. This love wouldn't do that to you.
There's no question that it's over.
That there is no recovery, no treatment, no means of fixing the basis of idea that might be used to restore what's been lost. There are no tools, no hammer and chisel able to carve out the space and capacity required to restore the beauty that was so blatently destroyed. There is no artist capable of creating something from absolute nothing; pleasure from absolute pain; beauty from absolute atrocity.