I loved him, that much I knew. But it was never my place to do so, he was never mine, I was never his, nor were we ever anything. This knowledge did not prevent it from occurring, instead false hope seduced me into a trance that I was unable to resist. There was this aura around him that enticed me through the years, even when I was committed to someone else. I didn’t posses love for him yet, but I would after I ended my previous relationship. But this isn’t a love story, not in any shape or form. For how could love exist if it was only imagined? At the same time, how could it be imagined if I knew it was real, and became so hard to over come? But once again, this is not a love story.