Once upon a time, I wanted to be your happily ever after.

You weren’t exactly the perfect Prince Charming I had dreamed of as a little girl reading fairytales and surrounded by the tickled pink walls of her bedroom. You rode in on your black Toyota Camry as a substitute for a noble white steed every day at 7:26 in the morning and ran to your locker with only moments to spare before the beginning of your first class. Sometimes you would pass my locker on the way and grab me by the waist, spinning me around until I was wrapped in your arms for merely a second before you were off again, shooting one last glance at me over your shoulder.

And then there were the times when we’d see each other from across the halls of our High School (not exactly the castle I’d hoped for, but whatever). My eyes would just somehow find yours – out of all the other dozens of pairs of eyes I could have found, I always found yours, and yours always found mine. We were sometimes all the way down the hall from each other, but when I’d see you and you’d see me, we’d both kind of slow down. I’d see you smile, and in turn I would blush and look at my feet for a second.

Sometimes you’d say stupid things and I’d pretend to be mad at you. I’d pout and droop my head down on my chest, crossing my arms. You’d put a finger under my chin and lift it so I was captured by those eyes again, and you’d whisper, “I’m sorry. I like you.” You always knew that your harmless flirting would get through to me, especially because I always knew you weren’t just saying it to make me feel better.

You asked me once over the phone to find fault with you. I refused, saying that I liked to see the best in people. You said that I’d known you for long enough that I must be able to find some fault in you. I asked why I would want to find fault with you. You told me that it was just natural. You persisted, continually asking me to point out a flaw of yours. Finally, I gave up and told you that you were flawed in that you looked too hard for flaw in yourself. I think I puzzled you on that one a little.

You always touched me in the most innocent ways. You would sit down with me and watch a movie in my basement, and you wouldn’t jump on top of me and make out with me like most teenage boys would have. You’d simply stare at me and sometimes raise a hand to my cheek and stroke it with the back of your fingers. Or sometimes when you’d kiss me, you’d put your hands on my head, as if cradling me in case I should fall. My favorite was when you’d reach for my hand when driving me home from school, not letting go even when you needed your own hand back to drive. And if you were feeling particularly loving, you’d kiss each of my fingers separately, your eyes leaving the road for a second to admire my skin.

One time, we sat in my living room on the settee, looking at each other as if waiting for the other to say something. I put my head down on your chest and buried myself in your shirt. When I was done making a memory of you, I looked up at you and said, “Hi.”

You smiled and replied, “Hi.”

“How are you?” I asked.

“Sleepy,” you said.

“Want to take a nap?” I suggested.

“That would be wonderful,” you sighed.

And so we wound ourselves up in each other and fell asleep.

You never had to save me from any high tower or any fearsome dragon because there was no such thing in our little town – only the occasional sex scandal or dumbass teenager who drank too much at a party and tried to hit on me. That was the worst it ever got. And when you’d drive me home from school in your Camry that was not a noble steed, there was no sunset to ride off into because it was obscured by all the trees. But despite all the stupid little storybook nuances, you did everything right.

Okay, so maybe you weren’t a prince, but you certainly were charming.