I was in love with a girl named Rosemary when I was 21.

She was beautiful, or course, but that’s not what captured my heart. She was confident, intelligent, and happy–that’s what made her sexy. You could tell by the way she walked; by the way she carried herself. Everyone around her knew it, too. There was something about Rosemary, something everyone could pick up on, but not necessarily put into words. She had a presence. She would smile at me sometimes, a playful smile, that said, “I know you want me.” She was powerful, and she owned me.

But I was a fool. I wore my heart on my sleeve, as I had always done. There are rules to this game, particularly at our young age, and I broke them all. I called the next day. I told her I was thinking about her all the time. And I was the first to say, �I love you�, when we had only been dating a few months. I was completely open with her about how I felt. In fact, at times I�m sure I gushed.

I couldn�t help it. I was so stunned, so helpless! Yes, I was helpless! She made me crazy. I couldn�t get her out of my mind. My heart raced when I thought of her, the adrenaline rushed through my body, and I got goose pimples across my skin. I had �the butterflies�, that sensation that young lovers experience, and old couples wish they still had. I wondered if she felt the same, and fearfully doubted she did.

I would spend my entire day thinking of her: her captivating green eyes, her curly locks, and a gorgeous face of Costa Rican and Dominican descent. I longed to hold her in my arms and kiss her lips and make love to her all night long. I was absolutely worthless at work.

And yet my heart ached for her. I knew how I felt. I shared these feelings with her on paper and in person. But she was silent. I couldn�t crack her. If she loved me I never I knew. When I said, �I love you Rosemary� I got nothing in return, not even a smile, or a frown for that matter. Just a blank stare, and I could hear her thinking, �Tom, you�re not supposed to say that.�

I would lie in bed awake at night, sometimes all night. The bed we shared, her bed, was positioned beneath a large window. The wind would blow gently through the blinds, and they would shudder. The blue rays of moonlight would shine upon her bare skin, and I would simply watch her sleep peacefully. I would watch over her sometimes the entire night, wishing she would suddenly wake and embrace me, and tell me she loved me. But that never happened.

Eventually we drifted apart. I suppose I was the one that drifted away from her. I wanted to be loved, and I wanted to know it. But in the end, Rosemary remained the rock that could not be cracked. And life goes on…