She was in love. The absolute, head-over-heels, walking like a drunken pirate wondering who on earth spiked your milk type. The sort that keeps you up at night because you’re just so excited, and can’t stop thinking about him. The kind that you feed from, no longer needing or wanting food…so mundane. The kind of love dreams are made of.

And why shouldn’t she be? He was perfect, after all. Hilarious, facetious, intelligent, witty, talented. He was handsome, too, with eyes as deep a brown as his soul, hair as soft as heather, curly like a cherub’s. He had it all…everything she’d ever wanted…everything she COULD want.

Well, maybe not everything.

It would’ve worked out beautifully. She loved him with a passion more than most her age could boast of. He was her perfect guy, she his perfect girl…though he couldn’t know it. Well…perhaps he could…if she wanted him too.

You see, he was an imaginary character in the girl’s story.

Ah, how easy it is to fall in love with a dream…