As I grew a little older, I like to think that I began to understand love better. I read Gone with the Winda thousand times over and hoped, every time without fail, that the ending might change. And then my heart panged for Willoughby, villain as he was. And I wept silent, shameful tears under the cover of night, alone in my room, for poor Meggie and that stubborn priest of hers. It all naturally set me longing for a romance of my own as it does every teenage girl, much as I swore myself to be a break from the stereotype. Nothing caught my interest as much as a bittersweet ever after, the final pages of a book that left me with a heart clenched in frustration.