To understand how it all began… we need to go back.
Just a year ago, I was another ordinary teenager in 12th grade, trapped in the same loop as everyone else—wake up, school, tuition, homework, occasional breakdowns, and a forced smile that hid it all. I was the girl who did what was expected. Science stream? Check. A decent friend circle? Check. Good grades, weekend parties, inside jokes, and dreams too big for my small town? Check, check, check.
But love? That checkbox stayed blank.
I'd never been in a real relationship. Never even kissed anyone. My "romantic experiences" could be written on the back of a chocolate wrapper. I had silly little crushes—on seniors, classmates, fictional characters—but nothing that ever turned into something real. And honestly? I didn't even try. I thought I wasn't enough. Not pretty enough. Not outgoing enough. Not bold enough. I guess part of it was my upbringing—strict parents, strong boundaries, and a heart that guarded itself too tightly.
Meanwhile, the world around me moved on in slow chaos. My friends were hopping from one teenage situationship to another—relationships that lasted a few weeks, ended over text, and began again with someone new just as quickly. They laughed about it, called it "fun." And maybe it was… for them.
But me? I was wired differently.
I didn't want "fun." I wanted magic.
I wanted the kind of love that made you feel like the world paused when you looked at each other. The kind where someone held your broken pieces like treasure, not like glass. I wanted someone who would choose me—not just once, but every single time. Someone who wouldn't flinch at my chaos but would stay, even on the days I couldn't.
But here's the truth they don't tell you growing up:
Life isn't a fairytale.
And sometimes, being a hopeless romantic feels more like a curse than a gift.
If you've made it this far, maybe you've felt that too. Maybe you've also loved someone who couldn't even walk a few steps toward you while you were willing to run barefoot through storms for them.
This story… isn't dressed in perfection. It's raw. It's real. And it hurts in places where truth and memory collide.
Back then, in 12th grade, I had a tiny crush on a boy from my class. He was sweet, had a decent smile, and carried himself with that annoying kind of charm that made girls notice. Even one of my teachers joked that we'd look cute together. And for a moment, I believed it.
But I never said anything.
And as if the universe wanted to rub it in, a prettier girl—bolder, louder—spoke to him. Flirted. Sat beside him. Laughed at things that weren't even funny. And just like that… they started dating.
In front of everyone. In front of me.
It stung. A lot more than I let on. But I buried it. My friends consoled me, told me he wasn't that great. That I deserved better. And I nodded along, pretending their words were enough to patch the hole.
But deep down, I still believed in something… more.
Then came this one dull afternoon—a math class that dragged on like molasses. I was sitting beside my best friend Anuska, staring blankly at the whiteboard. Numbers floated, formulas blurred. But my mind had wandered somewhere else entirely.
"I had a delusion," I whispered, half-laughing.
Anuska raised an eyebrow. "What now?"
"I imagined this guy," I murmured, trying not to smile too hard. "Not anyone real. Just this made-up guy in my head. A business guy. Someone who drives. Who's decent. Who respects women. Who's strong, but soft too. Someone who doesn't play games."
She snorted. "Babe, those don't exist."
"Maybe they do," I said, still lost in the thought. "Maybe not here. But somewhere."
She laughed again, but I didn't. Because in that moment, even if I didn't know it yet, something had shifted. Something began.
I had no idea that the boy I imagined that day…
The boy I thought I had made up…
Was already out there.
Real. Alive. Breathing.
Waiting to crash into my life like a storm I wasn't ready for.
And that delusion?
It was about to become my most beautiful reality—and eventually, my most painful truth.