Three Years and Butterflies, Prologue

My name is Amanda. I am not anyone important by the world’s perspective. I am not a famous writer or actress. I have not done anything in my life worthy of public recognition or honor. I am just an eighteen year old girl with a keyboard under my hands and a story ready to share with anyone who wishes to read it. All girls grow up looking for their own fairy tale. The one they see all the time in movies like The Notebook or A Walk to Remember or Titanic. They go to bed that night wondering if it is even possible to find their own Noah or Landon or Jack. Is it really possible that someone could love them enough to wait seven years for them to return, or marry them despite knowing the time with them will be short? Would someone sacrifice their own life in order for them to continue on living? Can it really happen, or is that just the magic of Hollywood or a good novelist? I told you that I am not a famous writer. This story has not and probably will never make it to the big Hollywood screen. I have nothing fantastic in my life except for this, and it is the most important thing I have to give. It is the knowledge and testimony which I give to any girl who has ever felt unwanted or longing for someone who they can spend their forever with in trust and love. I feel like the luckiest girl in the world, because I know what it is like to love more passionately and strongly than I ever could have imagined and have felt that same love in return. In this story I will leave nothing out, and I will add nothing in addition to the truth. This is not the creation of the mind of a romance author. It is simply and purely my memories of disappointment, excitement, pain, anguish, determination, hope and love that I have felt in the last two years. Today is August 6, 2009, and it is here in my downstairs library of my two-story house in the inland southern California suburbs that I begin retelling our story. I was born on December 21, 1990. That was the day I first took a breath in this world. It was a Friday afternoon. It would be years before I realized that the day my life truly began was not the day my mother gave birth to me. It was not even a Friday. It was Tuesday. Tuesday, September 4, 2007. The day I first laid eyes on him…





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback