Once there was a boy.

Once upon a time there lived a boy, who liked to run like the wind, sneak a bite from a plate without his mother's knowledge, wouldn't rest until he found what he was looking for.

He enjoyed fishing, swimming, football anything that would drive him to laugh his breath away, he adored his friends like brothers, and would often enjoy competing for the girl.

Every girl except the one.

This one...Ahhh, Her.

She had been too bookish, he thought with a smirk, too high and mighty for anyone, especially his kind.
He knew from her sniffly little nose that she detested his presence but there was something about her, he watched her stash her books away as if they were jewels of a foreign land, so carefully.
He recalled.
He had towered over her, but she still managed to look him down, as if he was an insect she longed to squash.

Ouch. He had laughed.

He didn't mind it then, he was so preoccupied with her hands, little hands that would hold each page like a tender lover, running her fingers against the words, sighing at an unknown author.

He wished he could write then, perhaps she'd find him more appealing if he could.
But he was never a man of words, he could sweet talk his way, yes. But he wasn't that Byron person she was always raving about.
So he did what he always did, just stared at her back, watching her curly black hair sway from side to side.
She had such pretty hair, He recalled.
But when she turned to him, it was her eyes that caught him off guard, big brown eyes, that always reminded him of melted chocolate, wide, questioning and ravishing. She did not have that innocent doe eyed look, no.
These were eyes of courage.

Memories. He shook his head, what use was it to remember?

What use was there to remember a woman, a girl, that was never to be his?

But he couldn't forget.

Never that.

It was the first time he had known real hurt, it wasn't a broken bone, or a wound at his wrist.
No, his heart had bled that day.

That far away day, when he had wanted to come, knock on her door and claim her as his wife,she had told him that she did not want him, just like she was refusing a plate of broccoli, She had hated broccoli.

How he had ached then, He still remembered how he had sounded.

Pathetic. He thought with gritted teeth.

He had thought it was the end, thought that he would never stand again, too broken to move, he was never the rich one, and he had never been ashamed of it until he had known what she had wanted.

She had wanted money, something he did not have much of.
She had wanted a Porsche.
A place called "Bags".
And Paris.

She had wanted things.

Obviously things that were more important to her than his heart, Why? He had asked achingly.

She had disposed of him, so easily. It was just like her.

So harsh.

And here he stood looking out a busy street from an open window, his blueprint plans of a new project lay forgotten on the table, different architectural instruments scattered about the highly important papers.
Wind played through the short strands of his dark hair, a cigaret clamped between his lips, a vision of a girl in his head.

He was eternally changed after that, no longer laughing, no longer inquisitive, he had been fire, now he was ice.

Slowly he turned away, stuffing pictures of hands, books, and curles out of his mind.

A dream forgotten.