by Chelsea Donahue
They loved treacherously, with the kind of fire that burns so brightly you believe the light will never fade. Their romantic moments rivaled that of the best storytellers, and they knew, without a shadow of doubt, that this is what people fought battles to gain.
But, as most stories do, theirs had a middle. It was classically romantic, but faced problems. The fire faded in the way a bonfire does, at the end of the night when you watch it tiredly, admiring its fading colors because they hold the beauty of memories you will cherish in years to come. Out of excitement, knowing they had that untouchable magic, they retired their stories to shelves for a rainy day filled with reminiscing.
The light burned so brightly in their memories that only when they noticed the path to the tree they carved hearts into had become so overgrown they could not reach it, did they realize there was nothing left to their fairy tale but a page in a book, reminding them of what they had let slip away so easily.