You Made Me Fall, But That's Okay

Chapter One - Why Hello There

Hi, guys :) I hope you like this story. I'll try my best to update as much as I can. But, it's easier said than done. However, Vote and Comment please! Go raibh maith agat ;) (means 'Thank you' in Irish) :P Oh, and by the way, if you don't know how to pronounce different names like Sinead (Shin-ayd) , just tell me and I'll write it somewhere ... :)

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Love: Noun.

1. Passionate attraction and desire.

2. Very strong affection.

3. Romantic affair.

4. Somebody much loved.

5. Strong liking.

6. Something eliciting enthusiasm.

7. Beloved.

8. Term of friendly address.

9. Kind person.

I frowned down at the dictionary in my hands, a book I really depended on, the sacred text of writing. But love couldn't honestly be that simple, could it? I almost laughed to myself. Whoever wrote that definition in my dictionary must have been extremely inexperienced with what love exactly was. But, then again, I couldn't say much, as I was too.

As I grew up, however, I did seem to grasp my own definitions from a variety of sights and experiences. For example, when I was only six years old, I thought 'love' was when your parents smiled at each other every hour of the day, kissed each other as they walked by, talked about the daily affairs across the dinner table, and told you how special you were to them every night before you got your goodnight kiss. They were the happiest days of my childhood.

When I as ten, and my curiosity increased by a fair amount, I learnt what a couple did together if they loved each other to a certain extent. I couldn't remember my cheeks being so hot in my entire life. Before that, I thought little fairies delivered babies to parents if they reckoned they worked hard enough in their jobs. Obviously, that little myth of mine was certainly not true.

When I was twelve, and my interest in boys grew considerably, I considered love to be going on dates, or being in a relationship with someone for around two months, if you were lucky. However, I was never one of those 'fortunate' people, as I still haven't even had my first kiss. In that way, I was very much a loser. It also gave my sister something for her to tease me about, as if she didn't do enough of it already.

Being fourteen and beginning to read the Twilight Saga by Stephanie Meyer, I guessed that love was a severely difficult and complicated array of events, that – although the chances were severely slim – ended in something wonderfully happy and lasted forever, even beyond death. I spent most of the rainy days of that year reading all about that type of vampire-human love, completely obsessed.

Two years later, when I was sixteen, I learned that this 'oh so magical love' was brilliant and exciting at first, but – inevitably – it ended in pain. That same year, my father committed suicide for a reason I did not know. Nobody knew why he had to go, not even my mother. From my eyes, he was one of the happiest men alive before his death. Then, he just took his life, just like that.

Now, nearly eighteen years old and sitting on my bed, I decided that I'd just have to wait until it eventually slapped me across the face. Then, when it arrived, I'd just have to battle it for myself.

Exceedingly frustrated, I lay back in my bed and threw my stupid dictionary back onto my nightstand, where a picture of my parents' wedding rested. I picked it up, and stared at it, depressed. Love, love, love – even they managed to grasp it. My sister seemed to love thousands of lads, to such an extent that I hadn't a clue which one is her current boyfriend. Why couldn't I find love?