Once upon a time, there lived a girl. She wasn't special: she never lost a glass slipper, was never poisoned by an evil step-mother, never went to balls where she wore her shoes through. She wasn't awakened by the kiss of a prince, didn't tame a beast, and never gave up her voice to become something she wanted to be. There was nothing special about her, yet she was unique.

She never met a prince, but that doesn't mean she didn't have one. Princes don't require royalty, money, or jewels. They don't need maids, or land, or superiority. They don't have to look like Orlando Bloom, or save you from an impossible tower. They have to be honest, kind, sincere. They have to smile, and have a sense of humor. But most of all, they have to love you for who you are. And hers did.

They met for the first time at a dance. Her first inquiry of him was if he would dance with her friend. The first question he asked of her was whether she was the person who disliked an acquaintance of his. She thought he was cute, but she danced with someone else, and he danced with her friend and they did not speak to one another.

Months later, they began to take classes together, talking and interacting on a weekly basis. They became friends, and eventually, she asked him out.

Yes, their love story is warped. It's slightly backward, but it's not uncommon. Perhaps it doesn't seem as supernatural, but it's even more magical than the fantasy you read about in storybooks.

They teetered, in the beginning. Unsure of how to act, she hesitantly reached for his hand on their first date. She was elated when he gripped back, and as she glanced down, she thought of how perfect his strong hand looked around her petite one. She held on, never wanting to let go.

A couple weeks later, they were having a tickle fight, and, in an attempt at seduction, she told him she knew of one way out of his iron grip, and asked if she should try and escape. He looked at her conspicuous smile, and hesitantly said okay. Though she was afraid of rejection, her expression and body language did not show it, as she leaned forward, smiling, and pressed her lips to his. His lips parted, inviting her in, and her body relaxed as he released his iron grip and her heart beat faster, though it was no longer afraid of rejection.

That evening, forgetting about a gingerbread house which had found refuge in their oven, she turned it on to cook dinner, thereby roasting said gingerbread house and confirming that her brain had turned to a perfect mush. When she sent him home that night, she felt her heart ache, and she knew she would keep him forever if she could.

Weeks past. They went to a dance together, dancing the night away. They spoke on the phone on the days they did not see each other. They kissed and held hands. And somewhere in the midst of all this, they fell in love.

One night, as they were lying around, talking and holding one another, she found herself wanting to tell him. She wanted desperately to say to him 'I love you', but something so important, so true, is hard to get past your lips. She couldn't get her lips to form those words, but she told him. She wrote it on his back with her finger, and he wrote it back on hers.

The next evening, as they were getting off the phone, she told him: 'I love you.'

A week later, as their conversation for the evening concluded, she said goodnight, and he said something inaudible in response.

'What?' She asked.

'I said, I love you.' His voice wafted through the phone, deeper than usual.

'Oh,' she felt her heart swell, and the glowing smile on her face was unavoidable. 'I love you, too.'


This story does not have an end. Love is something that should not have an end put to it: something that should flow freely on and on. It's not wanting to let go when the person has to leave. It's holding them, knowing you would be totally content to just lay there. It's going to bed, rolling over, and wishing they were there. It's having your heart tingle and swell with just three words: 'I love you'. Because you know it's the truest thing you or they have every said.

This girl was not a princess. She was not exceptionally beautiful; was not saved from an impending fate by a knight in shining armor. She never met a prince, but she had one. He was kind, polite, and honest. He was sincere. But most importantly, he loved her for who she was: just her.

They did not live a supernatural life; were not raised as royalty, didn't go to parties every night. They were not magical, but their love certainly was. Who would deny that this ordinary love is the making of a fairytale?