My hand reashes out and somehow mananges to find yours in the darkness of illusion and wishful thinking. Our fingers interlocked, you pull me with you on your journey. And I am all too happy to follow. I feel safe and warm at your side. That's probably why I think about you all the time -- Why I'm even writing this right now. Because I wish you to be mine. This is the only place and time in which I can pretend for however long that I am a princess and you are my prince, come to whisk me away to Happy Land, where everyone is beautiful and life is as we wish it to be. But deep down I know this is not real. So I write. I pretend. I hope and pray and wish on every single star that one day what I write will be true. But it's not. It never is. And every time you DO reach out to me -- every time you DO take my hand to lead me on a journey -- we end up, not in Happy Land, but in reality, where you need my help and I can not seem to make you realize how much I love you -- what I would do for you. And every time you DO look deep into my eyes, it is to tell me you've found the one. Again. So I smile and pretend some more. Pretend I'm happy for you. But never show you who I really am inside or what I really long for. You. And I find little comfort these days in knowing I am not the only one. Because no one knows how to say the words "I love you" anymore.