Someday Never Came

Prologue

Maybe this isn’t a story I should be telling. Once I write this down—put pen to paper—everything becomes final.

“Written in stone,” as they say.

Writing down our story means I have no choice but to move on with my life and accept that our someday never came.

I suppose not all great love stories get a happily ever after.

I could rewrite our story, giving us a fairytale ending where I make him my Prince Charming, who comes in just at the right moment to save the day. I could spin the truth and say we end up living our happily ever after.

I could tell you we finally find each other, as the stars align perfectly, no longer mere star-crossed lovers. We get married and move into a big, beautiful house he builds for me. I tend to the roses growing all along the front porch and make fresh lemonade, all while he mows the lawn.

We raise beautiful children, who are so fierce I fear for the world once they are set free into it. They tease and laugh so contagiously my heart bursts at the seams. I could tell you the children are so much like him, but they have my eyes. We live a happy, simple life. Then, once the kids have grown, they have children of their own and our home is constantly filled with joy and the laughter of our grandchildren. We host each holiday, have family dinners, and watch as our family continues to grow larger and larger each passing year.

Over time, he builds me bookshelves and laughs every time I bring home another unnecessary coffee cup for my ever-growing collection. As the years pass, we grow closer. We fall in love over and over again with each new version of one another. He keeps the promises he made to me. He vows to read to me when we grow old and I can no longer see well enough to do so on my own. I lay in his arms, listening to his heartbeat and the words he reads to me as I fall asleep for the final time. He follows me in death not long after. We live a long, beautiful life and even when faced with trials, past demons, or everyday annoyances—we stay, we fight, we choose us.

I want to write that story; the hallmark plot would make a beautiful feel-good movie. If I write that story, it means I can have him for a little while longer. Even if it’s only in my mind—or for a few short paragraphs—I could play pretend.

The issue with writing that hallmark happily ever after is reality will always snap back into place. Every sentence would be false . . . a lie in which I reminisce about the what ifs or what could have beens. In the end, the truth is: I am no princess, and he sure as hell was no prince coming in to save the day. In the end, that fairytale would not be our story, and our story was—is worth more than any happily ever after.

Which is why I believe there is something fundamentally wrong with girls like me—girls who don’t get our fairytale endings. We only ever fall for the Jensen Deans of the world. We fall for the type of guy who has you wrapped around his finger from the first interaction, the first motherfucking smirk and teasing remark. The Jensen Deans of the world will spark a fire within you—a fire that will always seem to be controlled by him and him alone.

And we fall for them knowing we will ultimately end up emotionally and mentally destroyed, only a shell of the person we were before we met them.

The true problem is—no matter how deeply they wound us—we will never truly hate them, because hating them feels like hating a part of ourselves. When everything is said and done, they are a part of who we are. Their actions, their words, their kisses, their motherfucking touch molds us into the people we are today.

If you are anything like me, you feel as if the Jensen Dean of your life is engraved into your bones and is a part of your soul. As if at one point in time, the two of you were as one.

Maybe that soul-tie is why no matter how much time passes, I will recognize him. As if my very soul would recognize its other half, no matter where we were. My soul searches for him in every crowd, in every face. Every time I see a person who has a similar build, similar facial features, or even the same skin tone . . . my silly little heart skips a beat before realizing it isn’t him.

It is never him, it will never be him. I have to remind myself, forcing my stupid little heart to settle back into my chest as the hollowness returns once more. Yet, my heart doesn’t settle before my mind races with the possibilities of what if.

I wonder if this will finally be the moment when he realizes what I have always known—what I suspect he always knew. If he will finally come to find me again after all these years, or if fate will bring us back together. I wonder how we have traveled almost thirty times around the sun, and still never managed to catch the other.

At least that’s what I thought, until today . . .