Once there was a young girl who fell in love with a boy. The end.
OK, just kidding.
Once there was a girl who fell in love with a boy who didn't love her back. The end. No, that's not it, either.
Once there was a young girl, a slight slip of a thing, willowy and graceful and everything a young lady ought to be. She fell in love with a boy, a brave boy, a boy who wasn't afraid to get into fights on the playground. And so she followed him, the definition of puppy-dog eyes, listening to his every word, laughing at his jokes, heart breaking every time he ignored her carefully constructed response.
One day, many years later, someone broke this boy's heart. The young girl was there, as always, to comfort him, her shoulder having housed his worries and tears countless times in the past. It was on this day that the boy finally noticed her. The way she looked at him. The way she stroked his hair. And so on this day the boy decided to fall in love with her. Not the way she loved him, but enough, he thought, to make her happy.
The girl knew he'd never love her as much as she loved him. He loved her because she loved him and for no other reason. But the girl decided that was good enough. She spent hours devising fantasies, all of them ending with him looking at her the way she looked at him instead of throwing empty "I love yous" in her direction as he normally did. She was busy enjoying the life she'd constructed in her mind, that is, until reality came crashing in.
One day she came home from work earlier than usual, having felt sick the entire morning. She unlocked the door, walked up the stairs to the bedroom, stepping over hastily discarded clothing along the way, and opened the bedroom door to find the boy, her boy, in bed with someone else. Not her. And so, realizing she had been living a cliché, she left the house and got in her car. She drove until she ran out of gas and then she abandoned the car, her last tie to the boy, and walked. The end.
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