I first saw my love in the lobby of the college dorm we were both moving in to. And as hard as it was, I could not stop looking at him. It was like Heathcliff had stepped from the pages of my favorite book and was just waiting for me to say hello.

Frankly, his perfection freaked me out. And even though I managed to become his friend and go on several dates, it was too much. The idea that at 17, I had found the one person who was perfect for me just murdered every ambition and dream I possessed in my secret heart. So I unceremoniously dumped him. Later I found out that he had just worked up the courage to kiss me for the first time.

Four years passed. We had gone our ways. And no matter how many boys I kissed or dated or tried to day dream about, he was always there. So finally, I found his address and wrote him a letter. I doubted he even remembered me. Doubted that he would do more than flush my nervous ,scrawl down the toilet. Instead, three days later, I got a thick letter that smelled faintly of his cologne.

Flushed with excitement I replied and for another year, we exchanged letters three times a week, with the occasional email. I truly fell in love with his handwriting first. It was better than my own, so small and neat. Then his wit, his humor, the long words he used properly. Nothing had prepared me for this wildfire love.

When we finally saw each other again, I nearly fell over myself trying to just walk over to him. His smile and laugh made the whole world blur around the edges. It was painful to be apart from him for more than an hour. We were married after an eight week engagement.

Today he is sitting on the other half of the couch, his long legs woven through mine as we read and chat. Heavy summer sunshine has nothing on the happiness inside me.

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