Eleven days, eleven months, eleven years- it doesn't matter how long Autumn Evans spends yearning for the love of her life, doesn't matter how hard she wishes, because despite how sly Oliver may be, he wasn't able to fool Death. He wasn't able to fool Death, and Autumn will spend the rest of her days blaming herself for it, drowning, drowning, drowning in her own guilt. But what happened before those whiskey eyes closed for the rest of eternity? A perfect boy, a perfect girl, a not-so-perfect love story. We may long for love, we may crave it, but no matter which way you slice it, love always ends in tragedy. Love is bliss, but it is also destruction; love may be beautiful, but that fact alone doesn't make it any less monstrous. Love is a danger that we all dare to face, hoping the benefits outweigh the risks. Just as Oliver Sinclair always says- said, before he passed- everything is a game, everything has winners and losers. But with love? Love gives you bliss- maybe for one year, for ten, for fifty- but it's merciless when it comes to ripping your heart out. It doesn't hesitate to rip away the happiness it gave you in the blink of an eye. And over the past year, with Oliver gone, Autumn has come to learn the fact that none of us want to accept; the fact that disappoints all the hopeful, love-longing hearts out there: there are no winners in the game of love.