The Perks of Falling in Love

chapter one;

I was 12 years old when I first realized what true love was. Real, genuine, unconditional love.

There were times when I would go downstairs in the late hours of the night, to find my parents slow dancing to the tune of their steady heart beats, comfortable in each others arms, perfectly content with the life they'd built for us stemming from their everlasting, death-departing love. I watched in the mornings as Dad would hold Mom by the waist as they swayed, too lost in one another to realize the burning pancakes screaming for attention. Or the sneaky kisses they would steal when they thought we weren't looking.

The littles found it revolting, rambling on about cooties and germs but I was fascinated, entranced by their fairytale love. I decided from then on that I would never settle for anyone who didn't make me feel the way Dad made Mom feel. Like a queen on a throne or an angel floating in the clouds, glowing as radiant as the Sun. I was determined to find someone who looked at me as if I held all the divine power of God in my hands, like I was heaven on Earth. This very reason was behind the fact that I was now 17, and have never had a boyfriend.

I found this to be funny really, an amusing anecdote about myself that was not only annoyingly cliche but also extremely sad and disappointing. And while I didn't go around desperately staring at every seemingly worthy bachelor, I'd be lying if I said the thought didn't cloud my mind most days. Some days I even got angry, bothered by not spending my weekends with someone of interest. I didn't understand why I was single, I wasn't bad looking nor was I antisocial. I was impatiently waiting for "the one", the imperfectly perfect guy who exceeded all my expectations and proved his love to me through both his actions and words. But despite all my hoping and praying, he was yet to make his presence known.

The first day of senior year was nothing special. Same boring homeroom, classes that felt way longer than they should be, exasperating freshmen in the cafeteria at lunch. I was ready to be done with the day, until he showed up. It was the fourth, and last, period of the day. English class in the stuffiest room in the whole school with my least favourite teacher. We were studying Shakespeare's Hamlet from our summer reading list and Ms. Jenson sparked the discussion of Ophelia, and the ways in which she was driven to madness.

"She was heartbroken. Her father was killed and the love of her life had just, well, dumped her," I spoke passionately, despite Ms. Jenson's judgeful glare as I spoke.

Suddenly, another voice spoke from the back of the class, "so you're saying this pathetic chick killed herself because her boyfriend broke up with her through a letter?" His voice was deep, mysterious, and infuriating. I was intrigued.

"Well actually it wasn't suicide, she fell out of a tree and drowned," I turned in my seat to face him as I delivered my rebuttle. He was seated in the second last desk from the back row, one column over. His hair looked like waves of chocolate as it flopped onto his forehead, resting just above his hazel eyes that seemed to look green under the fluorescent classroom lights. His strong jawline was clenched, as if he was trying his hardest to keep his mouth shut. He sat slouched in the desk, which he made look fit for a child with his broad build, and his leather clad arms sat crossed over his chest showing his annoyance. At my remark he rolled his eyes and scoffed as he went back to fiddling with the rips in his jeans.

Of course, I wasn't annoyed about his sleazy comment towards Ophelia's foolishness. I just couldn't bring myself to understand how someone could be so careless and ignorant at the idea of love and heartbreak. I thought it was a valued concept, even people who faced the worst break ups and heartaches could understand why Ophelia's situation drove her to insanity. The thought of Green Eyes occupied my mind for the rest of that class.

~

Later that day, I sat in my room tapping my pen as I tried to write my paper for History class. How did I already have homework after the first day? Sure it was just a short essay about what we remembered from last year and seemed easy, but the problem was that I didn't remember a thing from my junior year history class. I was too busy being distracted by Asher Jones' messy golden locks after his morning football practices, and wishing he'd turn around and ask me for a pencil or a piece of paper or a date to homecoming. None of which happened by the way, and the semester ended along with my wasteful daydreaming and failing grades. I was lucky I even passed that class. My trip down memory lane was interrupted by my little sisters coming into my room and staring at me.