The Stereotypical Love Story of Samantha and her Prince William

Introduction

I promise, I won't make this cheesy. Well, I will try not to. It's kind of hard to describe the rom/com movie of your life without making it cringy, double brie string cheese, but I will try. Not making any promises though. My friend Michaela thinks I should be making it as cheesy as all the good romantic movies that were released between The Titanic and The Vow. But that's the thing; I hate The Titanic.

His name was William. My friends called him the Prince. I met him at the start of high school when he asked me if I knew what the time was. He sat in front of me in English class and his shady brown hair blocked my view of the whiteboard. Not that there was anything interesting written on it. It hadn't been used since 1997 anyway.

Now, it was not a love at first sight situation, because I refuse to believe that a slow-motion hair flick and some disco strings music playing in the background constitutes as love. I didn't like him as more than a friend for a very long time. Now when I say a very long time, I mean a good two and a half years. All through that time, he was there as a friend, with some mean guitar skills, an infectious laugh and the cutest dimple action the world has ever seen. It wasn't until half way through Year 11 when my friend Sydney and I sat down for lunch, about 2 months before our Year 11 Formal when she asked me who I wanted as my date that I realized that there was something there. Something small, totally ironic and frustratingly stereotypical.