Even a glimpse at him made my heart race faster, my blood pulse harder, and my knees grow weaker. For he was like art, a masterpiece, and I was overly fond of him. He made me feel almost as if I wasn't worthy of his heart. In my eyes, he was perfect. Or, that is, I thought he was.
I was naive, like most teenage girls. I thought he actually loved me. I thought, maybe, if I did what he told me to, he would approve of me. There are no words for how I much I regret that now. I refuse to go into detail about what happened that night, but I will say this: I never knew that would lead to me going to therapy for six more years.
Anyway, this is my story. This is how I lived on, despite the battles in my mind. And this is how I found the answer to the world's mystery. "Can a love story actually have a happy ending?"
