<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677790333546269462</id><updated>2011-04-21T21:04:00.069+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Confessions of a Snow Queen</title><subtitle type='html'></subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Lorianne</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01816369882038010225</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SCqzATo2AuI/AAAAAAAABb4/Wmic97NeAhw/S220/avatar.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>3</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677790333546269462.post-785718047216137612</id><published>2008-09-26T20:59:00.017+02:00</published><updated>2008-09-27T19:43:17.974+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Chapter 3 - Brandon</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;***&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;January 2008&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03ib9oKBI/AAAAAAAABoc/A732nShPyxc/s1600-h/40.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413805345187858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03ib9oKBI/AAAAAAAABoc/A732nShPyxc/s800/40.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I was sitting on the sofa with Maronia. It was almost a year since we had moved to the beach together. We'd had a glorious summer last year, and that was a very boring winter compared to the excitement of summer. But living at the beach, you always get the feeling that summer was approaching fast, and by mid-March the excitement could be felt in the air. We were planning to have another hot and wild summer, just like the one we had last year. We'd already started going out all weekends, partying and meeting up with old friends from the previous summer. Soon we would be going out every day; there was no doubt about it. We wanted to enjoy this summer to the full, and we were planning to live each day with the utmost passion. Everything was going to be perfect. We were going to find some men, have the time of our lives, break their hearts, and move on. That was our perfect plan for that summer.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03iVu6HaI/AAAAAAAABok/wZUcI_FlrC0/s1600-h/41.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413803672837538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03iVu6HaI/AAAAAAAABok/wZUcI_FlrC0/s800/41.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;On that chilly January afternoon, we had just finished watching some soppy, tear-jerking love story, about a girl who got reunited with her first love. As usual, after we swtich off the tv, we stayed there on the sofa talking about all the nonsense that came into our head. But that afternoon we were unusually quiet, and serious. And it was at this point that Maronia asked,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"Do you ever think about your first love?"&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03iXAvLhI/AAAAAAAABos/AFb38og5M2Q/s1600-h/42.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413804016053778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03iXAvLhI/AAAAAAAABos/AFb38og5M2Q/s800/42.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I smiled at her, and answered,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Oh, I've had so many first loves. At that time, I was out having fun, just discovering life, and so I fell in love with a new boy almost every week. I wouldn’t call that love, though. I mean, if it was love, I wouldn’t have moved on so quickly, would I?” &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“You moved on so quickly, because that's just you. You fall in love, you live that story, they try to tie you down, you don't want to be tied down, you get bored - and so you dump them.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"How about you?" I asked her.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03J3-b-TI/AAAAAAAABn0/gYWR0BpwH-c/s1600-h/43.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413383368046898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03J3-b-TI/AAAAAAAABn0/gYWR0BpwH-c/s800/43.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;"You know me. My first love was Malcolm. We were just ten years old, so it must have been puppy love, which then turned into a sexual obsession on my part. I wanted to know what it was like having sex with him, I guess. Because after those couple of times, the novelty truly wore off. I'm not even sure that I was in love with Dylan, either. Because I still have the feeling that it was just a sexual thing." I reached for my glass. &lt;em&gt;This conversation is getting boring,&lt;/em&gt; my body language said. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Now come on, Donna, honestly, did you ever have a first love? Because apart from Jake, I don't think I've ever heard you say that you were in love with someone before. And to be quite honest, I don't even believe you were really in love with Jake, knowing your attitude with men. I mean, you've dated men who were much better than Jake, and they meant nothing to you." &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03J2nHqbI/AAAAAAAABn8/qZHqtVWyeVM/s1600-h/44.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413383001811378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03J2nHqbI/AAAAAAAABn8/qZHqtVWyeVM/s800/44.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I laughed softly.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You know the way I think about these things. Jake had meant something to me - he was different from all the rest. But I guess the real reason why I would have liked a relationship with him, is that he's so much like me, there is no way he's going to tie me down. He likes partying more than me, so life with him would have been one great party every day. Maybe that's why I held on for so long." Maronia smiled.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, Jake is one party animal all right. Other than that, I honestly don't know what you ever saw in him. But we're talking about first loves here. Was Jake your first love then?" I smiled again.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"I've had a few crushes, but mostly because they were really hot and popular guys. You know I would kind of feel an obsession to date someone, and would get jealous if he's with another girl. Then I get to be with them, and the novelty just wears off - especially when I would see so many other guys available out there." I paused, and then added, "Well, if you want me to give you a name for my first love, that would have to be Alex, my boyfriend when I was four years old. If you want me to give you a name for someone I wanted to be with, then it's Jake. I'm sorry babe, but that's all I can come up with." She laughed.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Maybe it would have been more appropriate to ask you who was the first guy that had fallen in love with you, rather than the other way round. Or maybe you would remember even better who was the first guy whose heart you've broken." I laughed and said,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"Who remembers silly stuff like that?"&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03J2enabI/AAAAAAAABoE/zRHv41lnVTw/s1600-h/45.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413382966143410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03J2enabI/AAAAAAAABoE/zRHv41lnVTw/s800/45.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I got up, and said that I had to go shopping, and walked out of the house. I was tired. Tired and sick of lying all the time. I had the reputation on the Snow Queen, and nothing was going to tarnish that. I couldn’t let other people know anything about my past, not even my best friend. I couldn’t even let them know what I was really thinking. That would be giving up too much of the real me. And the real me must remain hidden under these thick layers of ice that I have built around me. No one is going to get close enough to me, to discover the real Donna. That's too much of a risk, and I'm not going to take it.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03KF7NFqI/AAAAAAAABoM/taO9eV_iL9k/s1600-h/46.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413387112584866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03KF7NFqI/AAAAAAAABoM/taO9eV_iL9k/s800/46.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I got to the beach, and walked slowly on the sand. I moved closer to the edge, and sat down watching the small waves rolling in. It was a chilly afternoon, but it was a little warmer in the sun. The days were getting longer, and summer would soon be here. I tried to shut my mind off against the memories, but being there on that beach in Claryton, it was impossible not to think about Brandon...&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03KJEwj-I/AAAAAAAABoU/ucGHNtckyyg/s1600-h/47.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250413387957964770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03KJEwj-I/AAAAAAAABoU/ucGHNtckyyg/s800/47.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The first time that I saw Brandon, I was almost eight years old. My teacher had just told us the Cinderella story, and when I saw this 16 year old boy, I immediately pictured him as my Prince Charming. So that summer, when my parents moved to Claryton, I would as usual spend my days on the beach, and I loved sitting there watching him playing with his friends on the beach, and having a good time. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The years passed, and as I grew up I forgot all about Brandon. Until the summer that I turned thirteen.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;* * *&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Summer 1992&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02iAC3ldI/AAAAAAAABnM/E08ejaw1LnQ/s1600-h/48.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412698339349970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02iAC3ldI/AAAAAAAABnM/E08ejaw1LnQ/s800/48.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I was walking with Paula on the beach, when I suddenly bumped into Brandon again. He was twenty-one years old by now, but he was still as good-looking as ever. He had lost his boyish looks, but had exchanged for better charming ones. He smiled at me, as he said, &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"Whoa! Sorry about that!"&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02idjHmtI/AAAAAAAABnU/cMZc0liK8go/s1600-h/50.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412706259245778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02idjHmtI/AAAAAAAABnU/cMZc0liK8go/s800/50.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The days that followed, I saw more and more of Brandon, on the beach and around town. He used to talk to me every day. He talked about my father, and how he remembered me as a little girl, and he used to tell me how different and more beautiful I was now that I was a teenager. Little by litte, the friendship between me and Brandon grew strong. He was twenty-one, I was thirteen. I was like the little sister he never had, and for me, he was the kind of man I wanted for my own when I grew up. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;But by mid-summer, things started to change between us. Brandon was no longer the kind of man I wanted when I grew up - he was the man I wanted now. I started feeling things that I never knew existed - and I started noticing little things as well. Things like the way my heart skipped a beat everytime I saw him, the way my face flushed when he was near me, the little tingling on my skin everytime he accidently, or on purpose, brushed against me. Things started reminding of him - a song that was playing the first time we talked, a beach umbrella that looked just like the one we sat down under when we shared an ice-cream, a phrase someone says that sounds exactly like something Brandon had said to me. Little by little, I was thinking about Brandon all the time he wasn't with me, and I was missing him every day, and looking forward to meeting him. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Without noticing, slowly, I had fallen in love for the first time in my life, with Brandon.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02iZZ5xUI/AAAAAAAABnc/wDeoKOcWYRw/s1600-h/51.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412705146848578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02iZZ5xUI/AAAAAAAABnc/wDeoKOcWYRw/s800/51.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I never learnt how he felt about me. He liked being with me that was sure, but he never explained what feelings towards me where. I don't know if he ever felt something for me, and kept it hidden away because of the age difference - or if he never felt anything else besides friendship. That summer we were together almost every single day. My parents had found out that I was hanging around with Brandon, and they threatened to ground me if they ever caught me talking to him again. I said all this to him, and he said that it was quite natural for them to act that way. But I was ready to risk it all for Brandon, and kept meeting him secretly.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02irW6fbI/AAAAAAAABnk/5v7_HzXlb1k/s1600-h/52.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412709966151090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02irW6fbI/AAAAAAAABnk/5v7_HzXlb1k/s800/52.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; I longed to tell Brandon how I felt about him, but I didn't know how to say it. Many evenings we would be sitting on the beach enjoying the cool summer breeze off the ocean, and he would wrap his arms around me, and talk to me about his dream to live on this beach for the rest of his life. But many times while he was talking to me, I would rest my head against his shoulder, close my eyes, and dream away listening to the sound of his voice. I tried to imagine what it would be like to hold him closer to me, to feel his kiss, to hear him say that he loved me.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;There comes a time in everyone's life that changes them forever. For me it was that summer. That summer was the most perfect summer I had ever lived. It was that summer when suddenly I found myself shedding my childhood dreams, and feeling things like a woman. That summer my parents, had suddenly turned from my heroes to strangers; that summer the world seemed like a totally new and different place - but it was those new and different things that made that summer the one I always look back on. I was living a new life, and experiencing new things, and for the first time I was seeing things with different eyes.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02iqG1SMI/AAAAAAAABns/WS_kQvWZjMA/s1600-h/53.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412709630265538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02iqG1SMI/AAAAAAAABns/WS_kQvWZjMA/s800/53.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Brandon taught me things that I never knew about. I learned what it was like to be in love. I learned what it was like to look into a pair of blue eyes, and see the ocean and the summer sky reflected in them. Every time he smiled, my heart would soar to the highest point. I knew that I stood no chance with him, but yet, I kept hoping and dreaming that someday, when I will be older, Brandon will really look at me, and see me as a woman for the first time in his life.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02ACtJhGI/AAAAAAAABmk/IwXEks8dcAM/s1600-h/54.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412114938004578" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02ACtJhGI/AAAAAAAABmk/IwXEks8dcAM/s800/54.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The woman that Brandon saw came into his life towards the end of that summer. Her name was Alice, and she was beautiful - and eighteen years old.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02AFFHoXI/AAAAAAAABms/jFLcMvuCOcA/s1600-h/55.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412115575415154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02AFFHoXI/AAAAAAAABms/jFLcMvuCOcA/s800/55.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;To say that I felt crushed the first time that I saw them together, would be the understatement of the century. Swallowing a whole chilli pepper would not even come close to what I felt. I looked at them, and I felt the whole world swaying. It was early September, but yet I felt a chill wrapping itself around my whole body. I wrapped my hands around me, and didn't even realise that I had broken into a sweat. I wanted to fall down to the floor and cry until I pass out, and at the same time I wanted to run over to her, and push her away from Brandon. I don't know for how long I stood there transfixed in position, going through all these different emotions at once. In those few moments I lived through eternity - I lost all sense of time. I didn't know how old I was anymore - I felt like I was just a little baby being born, and yet I felt like I was hundreds of years old. Now I realise that it was at that precise moment that my childhood had died.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02AdIbQ-I/AAAAAAAABm8/PqawjNPxXSw/s1600-h/57.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412122031735778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02AdIbQ-I/AAAAAAAABm8/PqawjNPxXSw/s800/57.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Suddenly, I saw Brandon looking over my way. He waved at me, and started walking towards me, with her following him.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02Aas69_I/AAAAAAAABnE/lgdvsHy5vQE/s1600-h/58.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250412121379502066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN02Aas69_I/AAAAAAAABnE/lgdvsHy5vQE/s800/58.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;He introduced us, and I felt my heart shattering into millions of tiny pieces, as he referred to me as "his little friend." I pretended to smile to her, and through a mist of tears, I saw her smiling back at me. I excused myself and left them standing there on the beach.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01BJt7LrI/AAAAAAAABl8/NCX0jKYhodU/s1600-h/59.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250411034488549042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01BJt7LrI/AAAAAAAABl8/NCX0jKYhodU/s800/59.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I ran home, locked myself in my room, and cried for hours. I cried for Brandon, for all the hurt he had caused - but most of all I cried for that little child inside of me that had died that morning.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01BKKJhII/AAAAAAAABmE/aQW14iJ70l0/s1600-h/60.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250411034606929026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01BKKJhII/AAAAAAAABmE/aQW14iJ70l0/s800/60.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;The next morning, I was walking aimlessly along the beach, when I heard Brandon calling my name. I turned around, and looked away again. He ran infront of me and I tried to walk past him, but he would not let me through.&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01BeaHMhI/AAAAAAAABmM/Nw8x7jDytQs/s1600-h/61.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250411040042594834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01BeaHMhI/AAAAAAAABmM/Nw8x7jDytQs/s800/61.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;He took my hand in his, and said,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Listen to me, Donna, she's just a girl. She's no one important. She's just someone that I met on the beach, and want to have a good time with."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Weren't you haven't a good time enough with me?" I asked angrily.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Yes, I really enjoy being with you. But this is different. She's 18, she's a woman..." he trailed off. He didn't need to go on anymore. I immediately understood everything. Brandon was never going to see as anything else besides "his little friend." I nodded my head, and tried not to show how his words had killed me inside.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01Bv-77jI/AAAAAAAABmU/ZmOMXyEiS88/s1600-h/62.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250411044760448562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01Bv-77jI/AAAAAAAABmU/ZmOMXyEiS88/s800/62.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"I understand, Brandon. I'm sorry if I was angry with you. I just thought that you didn't want to be my friend anymore." He wrapped his arms around me.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"Don't be silly. I will always be your friend, forever. That's a promise."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01Bx_mmPI/AAAAAAAABmc/kqhFsWFitgE/s1600-h/63.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250411045300115698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN01Bx_mmPI/AAAAAAAABmc/kqhFsWFitgE/s800/63.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The last few days of that summer went by really quick. Brandon would still come and look me up almost every day, but most times, Alice would be with him. I tried to be friends with her, but it was impossible to like someone who was kissing the man that you loved right in front of you.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gDfPZuI/AAAAAAAABlU/xb84rrLC0Ko/s1600-h/64.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410465880663778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gDfPZuI/AAAAAAAABlU/xb84rrLC0Ko/s800/64.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;And to make matters worse, she always treated me like a little girl, and I hated it. I wanted to be grown up, just like her. She was still a teenager just like me, and yet those five years between us, made a whole difference.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gSC0OzI/AAAAAAAABlc/_EMrnwdGoBk/s1600-h/65.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410469787974450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gSC0OzI/AAAAAAAABlc/_EMrnwdGoBk/s800/65.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The last day of summer came, and before we left Claryton, I ran down to the beach for one final rendevouz with Brandon. He was there alone, and I ran to him, and with tears rolling down my cheeks, I said goodbye. He hugged me close to him, and said,&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Don't cry. Now you go back home, meet up with all your other friends, and have fun. Next summer will be here before you know, and I will be here waiting for you."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"You promise?" I asked through my tears. He nodded, as he squeezed me tighter.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"I promise."&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gSk6s1I/AAAAAAAABlk/Ki5kJARgfDg/s1600-h/66.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410469931004754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gSk6s1I/AAAAAAAABlk/Ki5kJARgfDg/s800/66.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;He let go of me, and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "See you next summer," he said. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00glDhiwI/AAAAAAAABls/6dfQDO50TqI/s1600-h/67.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410474891217666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00glDhiwI/AAAAAAAABls/6dfQDO50TqI/s800/67.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I nodded my head, and started walking away from Brandon, already counting the days for the following summer.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gr0bg8I/AAAAAAAABl0/kqynCrlGlBk/s1600-h/68.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410476706956226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00gr0bg8I/AAAAAAAABl0/kqynCrlGlBk/s800/68.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Fall came around, and school started again. But this time it was different. While I still maintained my position on that high pedestall, I felt like a totally different girl. I was now in love with Brandon, and I could talk about the same stuff they were talking about, because now I was in love like them too.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FQ2bOOI/AAAAAAAABks/QLcULklQZrQ/s1600-h/69.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410005611100386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FQ2bOOI/AAAAAAAABks/QLcULklQZrQ/s800/69.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; I couldn't wait for the summer to come though. Everyday I woke a little bit happier, because it was another day closer to summer - and to Brandon.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FY0ciJI/AAAAAAAABk0/eX82py49XBk/s1600-h/70.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410007750281362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FY0ciJI/AAAAAAAABk0/eX82py49XBk/s800/70.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Until that winter, Clarissa joined our group. She was a new girl from Claryton, who was staying with an aunt of hers for the winter. She was beautiful, and wild and bad, and so we included into our group. The first day that she arrived was the day when my whole life turned upside down.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410006153203586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FS3rD4I/AAAAAAAABk8/goBjNY9F5Xo/s800/71.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;"I know you," she said. "You were always in Claryton last summer, and you used to hang around Brandon Silver, right? Who are you, his cousin?" I smiled.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FS3rD4I/AAAAAAAABk8/goBjNY9F5Xo/s1600-h/71.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FmHNx3I/AAAAAAAABlE/Xzp2Ra4nXjk/s1600-h/72.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410011318667122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FmHNx3I/AAAAAAAABlE/Xzp2Ra4nXjk/s800/72.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"No, me and Brandon are very good friends." I looked at her, and asked her the question that had been on my mind all fall and winter. "How is he? I haven't seen him since last summer. I hope he's doing fine."&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FuHY5_I/AAAAAAAABlM/wigKlJIxmww/s1600-h/73.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250410013466879986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN00FuHY5_I/AAAAAAAABlM/wigKlJIxmww/s800/73.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"He's doing just wonderful, I guess. He's just gotten married." I stared at her, not quite believing that I had heard her correctly. I felt petrified to the spot, and I thought that the world had come to an end.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;"Married, you said? Brandon?" I finally managed to ask. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;"Yes. It's strange, isn't it? Nobody wanted to believe it when it happened. He's gotten married to some air-head called Alice..."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zk8bi9yI/AAAAAAAABkE/fKg6Ve_5dj0/s1600-h/74.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250409450373838626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zk8bi9yI/AAAAAAAABkE/fKg6Ve_5dj0/s800/74.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;She kept on speaking, but I was not listening anymore. Brandon. My first love. The man of my dreams. He had gotten married - to Alice.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zlKdnYAI/AAAAAAAABkM/5arekjSe8-4/s1600-h/75.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250409454140612610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zlKdnYAI/AAAAAAAABkM/5arekjSe8-4/s800/75.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The rest of the winter was like a nightmare. I tried to get Brandon off my mind, but it was impossible. I kept hoping that Clarissa had been lying, and that he had just moved in with her, and that by summer they would have broken it off.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zlKUnu_I/AAAAAAAABkU/-a3OAqwf6us/s1600-h/76.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250409454102887410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zlKUnu_I/AAAAAAAABkU/-a3OAqwf6us/s800/76.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;So when summer came around again, and we moved back to Claryton, I didn't even unpack my things, but ran straight down to the beach looking for Brandon. I stayed there for more than two hours, hoping that he would show up.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zla_7GiI/AAAAAAAABkc/OTSneJZeGSI/s1600-h/77.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250409458579479074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zla_7GiI/AAAAAAAABkc/OTSneJZeGSI/s800/77.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; Finally, I saw him walking by. I got up, and was ready to greet him.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zli3JFkI/AAAAAAAABkk/jTqT3p_HEqM/s1600-h/78.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250409460690130498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0zli3JFkI/AAAAAAAABkk/jTqT3p_HEqM/s800/78.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;But Brandon only glanced my way, and kept walking on by. He did not even smile at me, or showed any recognition at all.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxVBIO3I/AAAAAAAABjc/TuJ2wqhTQ3U/s1600-h/79.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250408563620723570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxVBIO3I/AAAAAAAABjc/TuJ2wqhTQ3U/s800/79.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I stared after him, until he disappeared out of view. Now I knew that Brandon Silver was out of my life forever. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxvMWAiI/AAAAAAAABjk/IoR9XS_Wv-0/s1600-h/80.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250408570647085602" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxvMWAiI/AAAAAAAABjk/IoR9XS_Wv-0/s800/80.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;And as I walked slowly, trying to get used to the bitter taste of a love that went wrong, and to the unbearable pain of a broken heart, I resolved never to fall in love again.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;* * *&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;January 2008&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxmiZQaI/AAAAAAAABjs/1cF3hNL_WbY/s1600-h/81.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250408568323654050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxmiZQaI/AAAAAAAABjs/1cF3hNL_WbY/s800/81.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I slowly looked around me, and realised that it was getting darker, and chillier. I got up, and walked back home. I had seen Brandon a few times the previous summer, but I never spoke to him. He smiled a couple of times, and I smiled back - just the way you smile to an old acquaintance with whom you share nothing in common anymore.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yx_vgy1I/AAAAAAAABj0/rxLknE7awqQ/s1600-h/82.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250408575089560402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yx_vgy1I/AAAAAAAABj0/rxLknE7awqQ/s800/82.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I've heard that he's had two beautiful kids with Alice, but two years ago, they had gotten divorced, and last summer he got with someone else.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxwjrSkI/AAAAAAAABj8/aOSwZTVuO90/s1600-h/83.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5250408571013384770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN0yxwjrSkI/AAAAAAAABj8/aOSwZTVuO90/s800/83.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Sometimes, I do think about Brandon, especially when I'm here on this beach at the beginning of summer. I still remember that summer clearly, and I cherish those fond memories of the little girl that I was. But sometimes, I wonder if he remembers that summer ; if he remembers that "little friend" from long ago. I wonder if he ever thinks about those hot summer days on this same beach fifteen years ago. But even if he does remember, I'm sure that he does not know how much that "little friend" had loved him. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;strong&gt;It doesn't matter anymore now. Brandon is ancient history. He's part of a life that no longer belongs to me. But he will always be a treasured memory of my first real love - and a bitter reminder of the heartache that getting close to someone can cause.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;* * *&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1677790333546269462-785718047216137612?l=confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/785718047216137612/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1677790333546269462&amp;postID=785718047216137612' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default/785718047216137612'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default/785718047216137612'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/2008/09/chapter-3-brandon.html' title='Chapter 3 - Brandon'/><author><name>Lorianne</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01816369882038010225</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SCqzATo2AuI/AAAAAAAABb4/Wmic97NeAhw/S220/avatar.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SN03ib9oKBI/AAAAAAAABoc/A732nShPyxc/s72-c/40.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677790333546269462.post-3450364612014657816</id><published>2008-08-04T16:58:00.013+02:00</published><updated>2008-09-27T19:36:17.017+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Chapter 2 - The Beginning</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaO7SetFI/AAAAAAAABgo/iG2SoG41I8w/s1600-h/21.jpg"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678335949812818" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaO7SetFI/AAAAAAAABgo/iG2SoG41I8w/s800/21.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The beginning of my story. 10th September 1979. A very hot summer day, 28 years ago, on a small tropical island called Lenton.&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;strong&gt;On that day, I was born.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaPBx4ecI/AAAAAAAABgw/v3_HVArYF-A/s1600-h/22.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678337692137922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaPBx4ecI/AAAAAAAABgw/v3_HVArYF-A/s800/22.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;My parents were the most normal people I’ve ever known. They used to live in a beautiful seaside town called Claryton, but a few months after I was born, they had moved to this little suburban town called Simville.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaPklrz-I/AAAAAAAABg4/HX_3EN4TgoA/s1600-h/23.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678347036217314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaPklrz-I/AAAAAAAABg4/HX_3EN4TgoA/s800/23.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I was a normal baby, and my mother insists that I was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. My parents adored me, and they gave me so much love – that much I am sure of.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaQExcNDI/AAAAAAAABhA/tRsv8XnfVVo/s1600-h/24.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678355675460658" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaQExcNDI/AAAAAAAABhA/tRsv8XnfVVo/s800/24.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I grew up very well, and before long I was attending Simville primary. Right from the first few weeks of school, the teacher noticed that I was a very bright and smart kid, and shared this discovery with my parents. This made them so very proud of me, and from then on they always insisted that I shall remain top of the class. My mother never got tired of telling me that I was the best student in my class, and that I should keep on ahead of the others. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaAZDQpSI/AAAAAAAABgA/5C7yQhUmFDA/s1600-h/25.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678086241002786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaAZDQpSI/AAAAAAAABgA/5C7yQhUmFDA/s800/25.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; At that time, this didn’t bother me that much. I loved school, and I always did my homework as soon as I got home. After that it was supper with my parents, some tv, and off to bed. I lived this kind of life until I was ten years old – and then I started questioning my lifestyle.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaAYTcM_I/AAAAAAAABgI/wk4C68yjK1g/s1600-h/26.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678086040433650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaAYTcM_I/AAAAAAAABgI/wk4C68yjK1g/s800/26.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I would hear the other kids in my class talking about the fun they had playing in the park on Saturday afternoons, while I was cooped up inside with a book – and I started longing for their freedom. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaArpXlCI/AAAAAAAABgQ/xsCfY3hjW58/s1600-h/27.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678091232678946" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaArpXlCI/AAAAAAAABgQ/xsCfY3hjW58/s800/27.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;I tried to talk my parents into letting me join them sometimes, but my mother’s words were always the same.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;“They waste their Saturday afternoons playing stupid games in the park, and you stay here, investing in your future. Someday you are going to look back on this time, and you are going to see how their lives have amounted to nothing, while you have become a real Somebody, and you would be thankful that you did not waste your Saturday afternoons chasing after them.” I let it go, and kept on with my life – but deep down I longed for the freedom, and independence that these kids had. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaAtWbqOI/AAAAAAAABgY/8W0xnL6rHb4/s1600-h/28.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678091690125538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaAtWbqOI/AAAAAAAABgY/8W0xnL6rHb4/s800/28.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Summers were much brighter. My parents would move to Claryton for the summer, and I was allowed to play on the beach all day long, as long as I managed to read at least one book per week. I loved summers with all my heart, and used to enjoy every single day from the break of dawn till I couldn’t stay awake anymore. I never wanted the summer to end. But like every other good thing in life, summer always came to an end too soon, and by the end of September, we would be back in Simville, where I would resume my boring life.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaBI_25KI/AAAAAAAABgg/eIJ4wxScScY/s1600-h/29.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230678099111634082" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaBI_25KI/AAAAAAAABgg/eIJ4wxScScY/s800/29.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Until I changed schools, and moved to Simville Junior High. I entered the new school at eleven, scared and at the same time looking forward to what the future might bring. Getting myself seated next to Paula Benton was probably the best move I had ever made.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZuknQ7YI/AAAAAAAABfY/loGKe1m31MY/s1600-h/30.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677780107160962" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZuknQ7YI/AAAAAAAABfY/loGKe1m31MY/s800/30.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Paula Benton was a star in my eyes. She always had the most beautiful clothes, and lived what in my eyes seemed like the most perfect life.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZu4PJt5I/AAAAAAAABfg/Y9Keu_Ih9e8/s1600-h/31.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677785374734226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZu4PJt5I/AAAAAAAABfg/Y9Keu_Ih9e8/s800/31.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;It was not very long before we became firm friends, although to this day I still cannot imagine what did she ever see in that hopeless nerd sitting next to her.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I started the school year trying to keep my grades up, just like I was used to. But it was not long before I started getting bored, especially when I saw Paula getting so much out of her life. I started slacking on my schoolwork, and my grades started getting lower too. I can still remember the first time that the teacher announced someone else’s name as being top of the class. I did not even come second that day. I was third in class. Instead of feeling crushed and worthless, like my mother always used to tell me I would feel if that ever happened, I was exalted. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;After that day, something happened to me. I started slacking on my work even more, and I always got such a rush of adrenaline every time my grades went a little lower. Soon I was getting just the average grade for my class.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZu_Pix6I/AAAAAAAABfo/i_78iiI50OE/s1600-h/32.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677787255424930" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZu_Pix6I/AAAAAAAABfo/i_78iiI50OE/s800/32.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;At first my parents could not understand what was happening, and wanted to come to speak to the teachers – and so for the very first time in my life, I told a lie. I said that I was really doing my best, but things were so much harder now, and there were much brighter kids in my class. They believed me, and said they were not going to push me anymore, just as long as I kept doing my best, and made them proud.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZu3R4qcI/AAAAAAAABfw/WT6j-QBdAj4/s1600-h/33.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677785117764034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZu3R4qcI/AAAAAAAABfw/WT6j-QBdAj4/s800/33.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;That summer I asked Paula to stay with us at the seaside house in Claryton. Her parents gave her permission, and we had the time of our lives. We would spend the whole day on the beach, and swimming in the sea. We got sunburnt, and we got as tanned as could be.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And that summer, I went through a major change. I changed my hair, removed my glasses, got new clothes – and did not read a single book all summer. All I wanted was to enjoy myself as much as possible, and with Paula by my side, everything was happening to me.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZvGbsB0I/AAAAAAAABf4/ih7qu7TmL4w/s1600-h/34.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677789185410882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZvGbsB0I/AAAAAAAABf4/ih7qu7TmL4w/s800/34.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;That fall I went back to school as usual – but now things were so much different. All the other girls were surprised by this change in me, and suddenly I found myself adored in every moment. I had suddenly become one of the most popular girls in the school. And with this came a lot of privileges. I hardly did any lessons now, my grades had fallen down, and I flunked a few subjects too. But I didn’t care. I was having the time of my life, and that’s all that mattered now. I had already wasted so much of my childhood locked inside amongst the dusty pages of old library books – now I was experiencing all those things I had read about. It was amazing. My parents started receiving notes at home, but I just shrugged them off, and went on living my life the way I wanted to. I was just a twelve year old girl, having the time of my life – and nothing was going to get in the way.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZcNdvHhI/AAAAAAAABew/LNahrk_nIqY/s1600-h/35.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677464655535634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZcNdvHhI/AAAAAAAABew/LNahrk_nIqY/s800/35.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Paula used to talk about the boys that she knew, and sometime towards the end of the second year, she said that she had a crush on a thirteen year old boy called James. She asked me if there was anyone in particular that I liked, but I just laughed right in her face.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“Come on,” I said. “All the boys our age are just babies. I can’t imagine falling in love with any one of them!” She laughed.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Arial;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZco9cbYI/AAAAAAAABe4/8MoXbKMuHJE/s1600-h/36.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677472036285826" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZco9cbYI/AAAAAAAABe4/8MoXbKMuHJE/s800/36.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“James is thirteen, but he's cute, he's funny, and would certainly make a great boyfriend! Is there someone older that you like, then?” I shook my head. “Don’t you want to have a boyfriend?” she asked. I smiled.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZciCpZSI/AAAAAAAABfA/hpKYVuWR43g/s1600-h/37.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677470179058978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZciCpZSI/AAAAAAAABfA/hpKYVuWR43g/s800/37.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“Yes, someday when I am old enough, I am going to fall in love with a wonderful man, and we will get married, have kids together – and live happily ever after.” She sniggered.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“Typical Simville dream! Forget about those silly dreams. The time to settle down will present itself at the right time. For the time being just concentrate on having fun.”&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“But I believe in love. I know that true love exists, and I know that it is possible for some people to fall in love, and to stay in love forever. And that’s the way my life is going to be. I’m not going to fall in love with anyone who’s not worthy of my love.” Paula shrugged and gave up.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZc70xaPI/AAAAAAAABfI/VVRMGap10H4/s1600-h/38.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677477100185842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZc70xaPI/AAAAAAAABfI/VVRMGap10H4/s800/38.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I was twelve. I believed in love. I believed in giving love to just one man. I believed that the person that I would fall in love would return my love. I believed in fairy-tale romance. I believed in happy endings.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZc0NlYlI/AAAAAAAABfQ/Iyv3qEjavPc/s1600-h/39.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230677475056771666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcZc0NlYlI/AAAAAAAABfQ/Iyv3qEjavPc/s800/39.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;And that summer, the summer I turned thirteen, I met Brandon Silver.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1677790333546269462-3450364612014657816?l=confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/3450364612014657816/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1677790333546269462&amp;postID=3450364612014657816' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default/3450364612014657816'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default/3450364612014657816'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/2008/08/chapter-2-introduction.html' title='Chapter 2 - The Beginning'/><author><name>Lorianne</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01816369882038010225</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SCqzATo2AuI/AAAAAAAABb4/Wmic97NeAhw/S220/avatar.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SJcaO7SetFI/AAAAAAAABgo/iG2SoG41I8w/s72-c/21.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1677790333546269462.post-838554394861106731</id><published>2008-05-13T11:48:00.002+02:00</published><updated>2008-09-27T19:31:50.710+02:00</updated><title type='text'>Chapter 1 - The Snow Queen</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk0zo2AmI/AAAAAAAABa4/QZzjcDqUZ-c/s1600-h/01.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199798103153443426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk0zo2AmI/AAAAAAAABa4/QZzjcDqUZ-c/s800/01.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“I love you, Donna,” he said, as he looked deep into my eyes. His words surprised me, I never expected to hear them coming from his mouth, especially since I hadn’t really done anything to encourage such affection. Thomas was just a pastime for me, a man to keep me company when my friends were otherwise busy.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk0zo2AnI/AAAAAAAABbA/5m9ujJmKAyE/s1600-h/02.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199798103153443442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk0zo2AnI/AAAAAAAABbA/5m9ujJmKAyE/s800/02.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I looked away, but he turned my face towards him once more. &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“Say something, Donna,” he pleaded.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk1Do2AoI/AAAAAAAABbI/XikDdYAn404/s1600-h/03.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199798107448410754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk1Do2AoI/AAAAAAAABbI/XikDdYAn404/s800/03.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“What is there to say?” I asked. “I’m really sorry for you, Tom, if what you just said is true. I never meant for things to go this far. I just wanted to have a good time with you, and I thought it was the same for you.” He was hurt, I could tell, but there was nothing I could do to ease his pain.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk1To2ApI/AAAAAAAABbQ/0yYgRctQZbw/s1600-h/04.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199798111743378066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk1To2ApI/AAAAAAAABbQ/0yYgRctQZbw/s800/04.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“I couldn’t help it, Donna,” he said. “I tried not to let myself fall for you, but it’s impossible. You are by far the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. You have the most wonderful character too. You always manage to make laugh, I can talk to you about anything – you don’t whine, you don’t act girly all the time, you like soccer, and racing cars, and drinking. You act just like one of my best male buddies, and yet you are all woman too. I can’t help falling in love with you.”&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk1jo2AqI/AAAAAAAABbY/lXkkPNsKJFY/s1600-h/05.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199798116038345378" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk1jo2AqI/AAAAAAAABbY/lXkkPNsKJFY/s800/05.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I raised my hand to stop him.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“That’s it, Thomas. I am just your friend. And I never thought of you as anything but a friend. A very good friend, and one that I sometimes sleep with – but a friend nonetheless&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkozo2AhI/AAAAAAAABaQ/Vo8zx--2DqQ/s1600-h/06.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797896995013138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkozo2AhI/AAAAAAAABaQ/Vo8zx--2DqQ/s800/06.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“And you never felt anything else for me except friendship?” I shook my head.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;“I’m sorry, Tommy. I never meant to hurt you in any way. I thought that it was clear between us that we were just good friends. I thought we were both playing it safe. I never expected you to have these feelings for me. I would have never gotten involved with you in the first place, had I known.”&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpDo2AiI/AAAAAAAABaY/QEnqBl_KP1Y/s1600-h/07.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797901289980450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpDo2AiI/AAAAAAAABaY/QEnqBl_KP1Y/s800/07.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“But can’t you try to at least give us a chance?” he asked. I shook my head again.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“No, Tommy, I can’t. There never was an us, and there never will be. I’m sure of that. I just don’t see you that way. Besides, I’m not even ready to settle down. I just want to go out, and party with my girls.” He ran his hands through his hair in exasperation.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpDo2AjI/AAAAAAAABag/Ed2GvMmoGAw/s1600-h/08.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797901289980466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpDo2AjI/AAAAAAAABag/Ed2GvMmoGAw/s800/08.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“And when are you planning to get ready to settle down? You’re 28, for god’s sake, and you’re not getting any younger. Women your age are married and raising a family.” I nodded my head.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpDo2AkI/AAAAAAAABao/qWN2mhN3MIY/s1600-h/09.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797901289980482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpDo2AkI/AAAAAAAABao/qWN2mhN3MIY/s800/09.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“That’s what I used to think that I will be doing at this age, when I was younger – and stupid. Now I’m much wiser Tommy, and I know that that kind of life is not for me. I don’t want to be tied down to any man. I’m like a butterfly, moving from one beautiful flower to the next beautiful flower, and never settling down on one. Like in that song, wherever I lay my hat, that’s my home.” I looked at him more purposely this time. I knew that my next words were about to crush him, but I was beyond caring now.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“Tommy, listen to me carefully. I never want to have any serious relationship with anyone. And if someday, for some weird reason I would feel the need to settle down, I’m sure that it’s not going to be with you. I hope that after tonight we can still be friends, but nothing more than that.”&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpTo2AlI/AAAAAAAABaw/5rjRZI64ZIc/s1600-h/10.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797905584947794" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkpTo2AlI/AAAAAAAABaw/5rjRZI64ZIc/s800/10.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; I got up.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“Where are you going?” he asked in a choking tone.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdDo2AcI/AAAAAAAABZo/aqaQ6V3vpRc/s1600-h/11.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797695131550146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdDo2AcI/AAAAAAAABZo/aqaQ6V3vpRc/s800/11.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;“I’m going, Tom, and that’s all you need to know. Goodbye and good luck, Tommy. I really wish that you will find a woman who’s worthy of your love, and that you will be happy with her. But I’m not that woman – and I never will be.” And with those words I walked away.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdTo2AdI/AAAAAAAABZw/tBTTd5yrj7M/s1600-h/12.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797699426517458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdTo2AdI/AAAAAAAABZw/tBTTd5yrj7M/s800/12.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; I walk slowly in the night – not knowing where I am going, and honestly I don’t care.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdTo2AeI/AAAAAAAABZ4/53BqCsPT8is/s1600-h/13.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797699426517474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdTo2AeI/AAAAAAAABZ4/53BqCsPT8is/s800/13.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I turn the corner, and see that Steve’s car is parked in front of his house, which means that most probably he is asleep with his girlfriend, and their son. I smile softly to myself. It doesn’t matter where he is tonight. Saturday night, he is going to be sleeping in my bed.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdjo2AfI/AAAAAAAABaA/K3ix3CyvFz4/s1600-h/14.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797703721484786" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdjo2AfI/AAAAAAAABaA/K3ix3CyvFz4/s800/14.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I get home, and find that Sharona and Jessica are not home. I go in my bedroom, and look in the mirror. No matter how many times I look at myself, I always get a shock every time I see that reflection staring back at me. I force myself to accept the fact that this beautiful, cold woman is really me.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdzo2AgI/AAAAAAAABaI/A3xP_jdBdPM/s1600-h/15.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797708016452098" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkdzo2AgI/AAAAAAAABaI/A3xP_jdBdPM/s800/15.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I can see and feel the warm tears slowly sliding down my cheeks. I know that I am going to miss Thomas. Silly, goofy, good-hearted and good-looking Tommy. I’m sure that there is more than one woman who would have liked to be in my place tonight, and hearing Tommy declaring his love for her. But not me. His love confession had no effect on me.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNTo2AXI/AAAAAAAABZA/gdZK0nIO_-Y/s1600-h/16.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797424548610418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNTo2AXI/AAAAAAAABZA/gdZK0nIO_-Y/s800/16.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I am crying as I look at myself, not because I have lost Tommy, but because of tomorrow. I know that tomorrow I will have to tell Jessica and Sharona, my two best friends what’s happened tonight – and I know what their reaction will be. They are going to raise a glass of wine in toast for me, telling me that I’m a real woman, who will never let any man tie her down. They will start telling me how they envy my ice-queen attitude, and how much they wish they had the guts to be like me. Tommy was not the first and only man to have gone through this situation with me. In the past year, this year that I had been living with Sharona and Jessica, there had been other men. There was Stan, and Rick and Louis. Tommy was the fourth man who had declared his love for me, and had been rejected.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNTo2AYI/AAAAAAAABZI/u8u2OYTH6MU/s1600-h/17.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797424548610434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNTo2AYI/AAAAAAAABZI/u8u2OYTH6MU/s800/17.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; Yes, I am the Snow Queen, sitting on her cold throne in her magnificent ice-palace.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNjo2AZI/AAAAAAAABZQ/GF6omTEr_JE/s1600-h/18.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797428843577746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNjo2AZI/AAAAAAAABZQ/GF6omTEr_JE/s800/18.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I get home, change into my pajamas, and get into bed. But I can’t sleep. I keep tossing and turning. I know that all the people who know me, they all firmly believe that I will never let any men get close to me, because I am the coldest bitch since the beginning of time. I just use them, break their hearts and deceive them – and then leave them. That’s the way it always was, that’s why I never get hurt... &lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Or so they believe.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNjo2AaI/AAAAAAAABZY/Th9gBRE580Y/s1600-h/19.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797428843577762" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNjo2AaI/AAAAAAAABZY/Th9gBRE580Y/s800/19.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I can’t sleep tonight. I have too much on my mind. I keep thinking about my whole life, and the different girl I used to be. Smiling faces keep flashing through my mind – Brandon, Danny, Zack, Sean – and mostly Jake. Jake, with his tough attitude, and his charming smile.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="justify"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I know that I'm going to be tormented by the memories tonight - it's been happening quite a lot lately. I can’t tell the people around me the truth about myself – they adore their legendary Snow Queen too much to ever believe that her heart wasn’t always made of ice, and that in its place once, long ago, there used to beat a warm, loving heart. A heart that now has been shatterd beyond repair. They could never fathom that their cold idol once believed in love, and in fairy-tales coming real. But I know the truth, and I know that no matter how many different lives I invent for myself, to protect my image, my past is only one - and nothing can change that.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;a href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNzo2AbI/AAAAAAAABZg/e5oEfvrOAXs/s1600-h/20.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5199797433138545074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClkNzo2AbI/AAAAAAAABZg/e5oEfvrOAXs/s800/20.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Well, as strange as it may seem, once I used to believe in happy endings...&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/1677790333546269462-838554394861106731?l=confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/838554394861106731/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=1677790333546269462&amp;postID=838554394861106731' title='9 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default/838554394861106731'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/1677790333546269462/posts/default/838554394861106731'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://confessionsofasnowqueen.blogspot.com/2008/05/chapter-1-snow-queen.html' title='Chapter 1 - The Snow Queen'/><author><name>Lorianne</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01816369882038010225</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='24' src='http://bp3.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SCqzATo2AuI/AAAAAAAABb4/Wmic97NeAhw/S220/avatar.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://bp0.blogger.com/_Wh5ecYMASvY/SClk0zo2AmI/AAAAAAAABa4/QZzjcDqUZ-c/s72-c/01.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>9</thr:total></entry></feed>
