"He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me, he loves me not."
You jump straight to the logical, rational conclusion. "It makes perfect sense," you proclaim. You've run the math in your head, checked it twice. It's sound. Meanwhile, she's on her fifth time explaining the situation to you, another twist to the angle, another vantage point perhaps. "He likes / doesn't like you," you patiently repeat yourself and think about another way to say the same thing without saying the same thing. Maybe if you say it enough, she'll understand. And when you leave, unsuccessful in your endeavour, she'll tell the same story five more times, even to perfect strangers in line at the grocery store. "What do you think he means by that?" she'll ask and they'll all shrug in unison and move on to the next checkout counter.
If she's lucky, she'll have a therapist to talk to, or an aunt, mother, sister, mentor, somebody else who will validate what you've thought to be true. But how can an interpretation of someone's actions ever be validated by what someone outside of the situation thinks? At best, we're all guessing. And trying to keep her from talking to herself / her plants / her cat / her ex. Until finally, until what? It's resolved? It's over or just begun? Someone's heart lies shattered on the pavement, tossed out the apartment window by a barrage of harsh words or regretful actions. Someone's heart lies cradled, nestled in someone else's palms and flutters and blushes a deep deep red. No, it's typically less dramatic than that. A slow oozing out of everything until the repetitions become less and less frequent and one day completely drop away.
"My turn," you think and seize the lectern. And then it's rinse and repeat all over again.