I grew up hearing about my parents' love story. How he'd fought for her when she'd refused to fight for herself. The way she'd fought for him when she'd feared that all was lost.
I wanted that.
But for some reason, I'd always imagined that my love story would be different. That it would be easy.
It wasn't.
No, our story was intense, and convoluted, and frustrating.
But it was ours.
In the end it all came down to one thing...
I'd loved him since the very beginning.
Even when he wasn't mine to love.