I always wanted a romance worthy of a Nicholas Sparks novel, or a classic movie.
I always wanted Hollywood.
And I thought I got it.
I thought I finally got to be that girl in the classic.
The cliched, predictable love story.
I thought I was the young innocent who fell for the older, guarded, misunderstood.
I thought I was 16 and in love with a dangerous, mysterious guy that I would end up fixing and finding forever with.
It was perfect.
It was love at first sight.
It fell beautifully in line with every great romance story.
It rose and fell in the right ways at the right moments.
Tragedy struck right on cue, when everything was perfect.
I waited four years for the big resolution.
For the happy ending.
For my own happily ever after.
In the end, I got faked out.
Reality flew on set, wrecked the studio, tore my script, crashed the cameras, and blew out the lights.
And I was left with a suitcase full of broken hearts and shattered plans in the harsh sunlight of life.
Life showed me that it wasn't love, it was adoration and infatuation.
And it hurt like hell for a long time until I learned to see it as a lesson and not a tragedy.
So maybe I didn't get to be Belle in The Beauty and The Beast.
I wasn't Molly Ringwald, he wasn't Judd Nelson and we weren't living in The Breakfast Club.
But I also don't have to carry the weight of a "lost love" with me for the rest of my life.
I don't think I'll ever be able to forget his name.
I don't think I'll ever forget how happy I was.
I don't think I'll ever forget how much I cried.
I don't think I'll forget any of it.
But I know what I deserve now, and what I want, and what love doesn't feel like.
