I am a writer.

Always have been, I suppose. Constantly making things up as a child, imagining countless tales and creating tons of stories. Never could finish anything either. To this day I have box after box filled with bright drawings and well thought out introductions to books that I never finished.

I'm still a writer, though my skills have inevitably improved. And I still have that inability to finish everything I start. But no matter. I've gotten better over the years, and now my detailed planning includes endings as well as beginnings. Whether those conclusions get written or not is a different story.

This story, however, is also a different one, in the fact that it's already been written, and days of preparing are not in any way needed. The characters have well-developed personalities, the dialogue has been spoken, the plot is formed, with twists and turns as any good drama has. The ending has been played out in its entirety, complete and perfect in its way.

For this one instance, I suppose you could call me a recaller, as opposed to a writer. That is what I'm doing, all I'm doing. Recollecting memories and relating them as they have been imprinted in my mind to your screen. Imagination is only necessary where the details have become hazy, or where my mind has so turned the events in my favor that the truth is now forgotten and is needed once more.

In any case, you could call this my story. But then, it is only a part of my story, a mere half a year of my already short life. But this half a year needs to be told, to be written down so that I can not only warn people against doing what I have done, but also remember that wonderful time of my life before it all fell apart.

So you've probably got questions. Consequently, I have answers. I'll give you those answers, as long as in responding, I don't give away any part of the story that I don't wish to spoil just yet. Because a story that is too typical and predictable is not a good story at all.

What is this story about? Well, I can only tell you so much. But yes, it is a romance, and yes, it is dramatic. Being the age I am, any romance is bound to have its inappropriate parts, and therefore its classification. It is also non-fiction, and everything written here is completely and utterly true. It happened at one point, exactly as it is written. So no doubts.

Why am I writing this? I've already explained that in preserving this on paper, I will not only warn others against its repetition, but also commit it to memory. I need to write this down now, before my selfish thoughts twist it any more than it has already been twisted.

Who is in this story? Myself, of course, and everyone I conversed with in that span of six months. A boy, no doubt, is included; a boy who, for that period of time, I thought was going to be with me forever. But everyone makes mistakes, and to err is human.

Who am I? Well, I most certainly am human. I am also a girl, older now than I was then, and now able to look back with wisdom over those months that are, if not wasted, over. Descriptions will follow, but know this - I feel as others feel; I have the need to be loved, and that need inspired all that was to come in that wonderful time. I was also smart, but blinded by wishes that couldn't be realized, and so ignorant.

Though this is the beginning, this story is very much over. I've gotten to the point where I know that there is no going back, and what I had once can never be regained. I've also pushed that one thing away, to the point where it will never be as close as I want it to be.

But I've also come to terms with this, and the writing of this story, but one chapter of my life, is my way of concluding something that has stretched on longer than it should have. Much longer.

So the story starts. If you're worried about my nature, and my way of letting stories fall unfinished into piles of forgotten papers, don't be. As this tale is already finished, so are my days of keeping things locked in that need to be let out. I will continue this story until its end, and if ever I feel the temptation to move on to a new project, I promise you that this will be the one I fall back on when others have led me to lose interest.

Again, who am I? Some foolish girl who made mistakes and who is now trying to compensate by writing a silly romance? Someone wise beyond her years, whose story would be well acknowledged by the world? I say, neither. I am who you wish me to be, and whom I wish you to see me as. I am me, and for the sake of this story, that is enough.

I am a writer.