There’s something about being a child, and making up stories with each other. Once upon a time, children would start to say, we were heroes, dragons, royalties and murderers! Always something new and exciting, television dramas re-enacted to the best of their abilities and of course, their own original tales of betrayal and heroism.

But when I was younger, I learned that lying was a lot like telling stories. Very easy to live in, and very easy to act.

When my classmates asked, who do you have a crush on?

I would answer, face shy with flustered laughter, why, the most handsome boy in class of course!

I never noticed anything particular about him, nor any other for that matter. Still, I knew he was liked, and I knew he was known as handsome. The perfect choice of character, don’t you think?

It changed from month to month, as children won’t do to stay still for a single moment, but it’s always the same. A part of being a storyteller is to be consistent, and I learned to blunder through a lie.

Again, they’d ask, “who do you like the most?”

I’d act, defensive, crossing my arms like so and turning my head. “I wouldn’t tell!”

They would plead and pull, promising to never tell another soul and I, of course, ever trusting, told them who. To them, the give was catharsis. The cutest or the smartest, either one could be good. Any boy that many of the other girls liked together, to giggle and gossip over on their latest interaction. I never managed to remember their faces.

One more time, but not the last, it had never stopped. They would say, “tell us who you like!”

Twirling my hair the same way I see them do, and giggling with muffled secrecy, I’d say, “why not guess?”

It would not do at all to bore an audience. They would grumble and groan, frowning and whispering as they named more and more boys in our class, until of course, they named the right one. A careful silence, a quick dart of the eyes. They think they found him.

And oh, how their eyes shined. It was beautiful, and a wondrous feeling to have created such a story to a captivated audience. The rush of a successful performance was unlike any other.

Until, of course, the story ends, and the storyteller is no more. And now, all that’s left is a little girl, watching her friends speak of matters she would never understand nor relate to. 

Not the heartbreak of a first love, the euphoria of a mutual crush, nor the shy feeling from a first date. I could not care less for these matters, but I never dared to say so to my friends. Never have I envied the pains and joys of romance.

And yet I have yearned, deeply and terribly, for many years of a love that would, eventually, come to be. I had been desperate, as any person would have, for connection. For someone to understand intimately, not as a lover but as a friend and companion throughout life. 

I had been a very lonely child, who had believed that stories and lies will bring her the love she yearned, but not anymore. And how dearly I wished I could tell them, their time for love would come, just not in the way they’d expect.

Stories, fun as they are, truly have nothing on the real thing.