One day she would tell him. One day she would tell him she had always loved him. They were going to get married. She knew it. It had to happen. She had watched him flirt with countless girls, and at first it used to bother her, but then she became amused by it; he never made a commitment to them. It was entertaining actually, to watch their faces light up as they coyly batted their mascara-laden eyelashes, or how they giggling and playfully hit him back. Each girl was the same, and the faces blended together. She teased him about it, but he never admitted he liked any of them. Yes, they were hot. Yes, they were attractive. But never were they interesting, intelligent or captivating. Never were they enchanting, inspiring or creative. Never were they alive. She bugged him about why he never dated anyone. He responded: “Why haven’t you?” She had tried. She liked other guys, but it was never meant to be. None of them were him. They weren’t as intelligent, as humorous, as interesting. If, as she secretly hoped, her life had been previously planned out, she was meant to be with him; their strings of life, if there truly were such a thing, were intertwined. She couldn’t leave him. She thought about it. She thought about going off to college and leaving him and his various flirting partners behind, leaving him in her past so she could discover her own future. It was appealing. But he had her trapped, like a spider in its web, and as much as she struggled she couldn’t break free. She struggled so hard, she wondered why she was struggling so hard and what would be so bad if she let the spider engulf her with his stinky web, and swallow her up into the night. She stopped struggling. She waited for him. She was still waiting for him.