Princesses are supposed to love princes. That's how the story is supposed to go. But stories rarely go as they should. 

Years ago, at a ball announcing her eligibility, Princess Isobel of Albina danced with Prince Felix of Portswell. Neither Isobel nor Felix were having a grand time, but her parents, King Rufus and Queen Vivian, looked on with fondness. 

"Ah, to be young and in love...," swooned Vivian. 

"What a fine match for our daughter!" thought Rufus. 

Isobel wished merely for the night to end. 

As the music came to an end, an inky cloud of smoke burst from the palace walls, and within them was-

"Jessamine! It's the witch Jessamine!" cried a partygoer. 

"Jessamine, I had you banished from this kingdom long ago!" spoke King Rufus in his commanding way. "What makes you think you have any right to be here again?" 

The witch pointed a scaly finger at Prince Felix. "That boy is mine! His heart belongs to me!"

The crowd gasped, and the guardsmen charged forward. 

"No!" shouted Prince Felix. "She's right. You see, years ago, in exchange for our kingdom's protection, my mother promised Jessamine that one day we would marry. I am Jessamine's betrothed. But..." Felix sighed, "I'm sorry, Jessamine, but I can't marry you."

He turned to Isobel. "I can't marry you either, Isobel. I have a lover already- Sir Ignatius, Portswell's greatest knight. He is the my life's greatest happiness, and I will deny our love no longer." 

Touched by Felix's sudden boldness, Isobel stepped forward. "Mother, Father, people of Albina, I refuse to marry a prince or any man. They have sparked no interest in me since the day I was born. But this enchanting creature here,"she gestured to Jessamine "is one I could learn to love."

Jessamine's cruel expression softened, and she blushed. "I-is that true? Could you really learn to love me?"

"I could. If you could return me the pleasure, " Isobel smiled. 

The rest of the night, Isobel and Jessamine danced upon every inch of the ballroom floor, while Felix left immediately for his home and his Ignatius. King Rufus at first did not approve of the blossoming relationship between the princess and the witch, but as Jessamine grew kinder and gentler thanks to Isobel's love, his blessing was soon given.

Likewise, King Percival and Queen Elise of Portswell were shocked to hear of their son's hidden romance, but they, like everyone else in the kingdom, wept with joy the day of the royal wedding. 

At the altar, with new friends Isobel and Jessamine by their side, Felix and Ignatius looked into each others' eyes with nothing but pure passion and admiration. "Felix, my love, I'm still so surprised," whispered Ignatius. "What made you change your mind about keeping our affair secret?"

Felix shrugged playfully. "Love is like a witch's spell. It makes you mad in the best of ways."

The kingdoms of Albina and Portswell thrived under the reigns of Queen Isobel the Kindhearted, Queen Jessamine the Cunning, King Felix the Truthful, and King Ignatius the Brave, and their children would happily tell the rest of the world of their parents' extraordinary love stories. 

Sometimes princesses love witches, and sometimes princes love knights. That's the way this story goes. 

I love you, but you already know that. 

Our time together is soon to be cut short, and you know that as well. 

Who knew the apocalypse would be so peaceful, so quiet? Like dust settling upon a mantelpiece, a moth beating its wing against a window, we all die. 

Well, you all die. You, my dearest love, and our friends and your family. 

The afterlife, whatever it is like, will be your new home, and I hope it is warm and cozy and inviting, just the way you like it, and I hope there is a corner just for you where the light is just perfect for sketching and there is always a hot cup of peppermint tea waiting for you. 

I hope death is every bit as pleasant as a human could hope. And perhaps years from now, beings from another world shall land upon a desolate, deserted Earth to find a robot who learned to feel and hurt and love, but try as it might, could never learn to die. The robot will tell them the story of humanity, especially of one particularly beautiful human, who liked to sketch and drink hot cups of peppermint tea. 

You didn't give up. Far from it. 

To give up, you first must try. You must infuse your effort with passion and wanting. You must give it your all, and then suddenly stop, and take your all away. 

You didn't try. Instead, you simply stepped away and went home and continued on with your life. Neither you nor anyone else was hurt.

Sometimes it's better to not try, for sometimes to try is to give up, and to give up is to hurt. 

Can you be in love with somebody whom you never even met?

Somebody with whom everybody else is in love?

If you've never met them, never shared a meal together, only heard their voice in clips and videos, can you still fall for them?

Call it what you want: admiration, a schoolgirl crush. 

I'm going to call it love.

Unless that's weird. 

I don't dare say his name. He might hear me. 

But I will say that I love him. He is the brightest star in my galaxy, and when I look at him I'm practically blinded. Everyone loves him, his whole community loves him, for he took that community when it was at its lowest and changed it for the better. Today they all thrive. 

He sees goodness in everyone and everything, humans as well as animals, and he says so without a hint of restrain. He's caring and kind, and that only makes him stronger, not weaker, not a sissy as he was so often called as a child. Yes, he was an outcast once, but he made it out alive. He survived, like always. 

He doesn't know that I love him, but I don't mind. We aren't meant to be. He's found somebody who can match his strength, heart, and wit, which is what he needs. I don't know why, but he so often doubts himself. That's why he needs her, for she's self-assured and can help him when he needs it, not continue to make him fall apart. 

That's what I'd do. 

I don't need him to love me. I just need him to keep lighting up my life. If he can't be mine, he can at least be my inspiration. 

So you think you're a writer, dear self? 

Get in line! So does everybody else.

 It's 2017, The Era of The Opinionated Commenter, The Golden Age of BuzzFeed, and everyone with an iPhone and at least one working thumb thinks they could be the next J.K. Rowling or Stephen King with a little luck and a lot of coffee. You of all people should know that having a "unique viewpoint" isn't very unique at all, and certainly doesn't make you a writer. 

At best, it makes you an English major. 

At worst, it makes you a smartass. 

You're both, but you're especially a smartass. A chubby smartass who won't shut up about her own chubbiness, and that doesn't make you a writer. 

It doesn't make you Lena Dunham. Nobody likes Lena Dunham anyway, so why would they like you? Answer: they wouldn't. They don't. 

And wearing black-rimmed hipster glasses does not make you Tina Fey. Tina Fey is a whip-smart, articulate, brilliant wordsmith who can dissect the fabric of society within a sentence. You left Tumblr because you couldn't deal with a few mean comments. There's a bit of a difference there. 

You think you're a writer, dear self? Think again. 

I'm a horrible person. There, I said it. It is likely that there are many people who have now sighed in relief at the admittance of my own horribleness, including the boy in my first grade class whom I once punched in the teeth- he stole my graham cracker!- as well as my own parents, bless them. But Rose would  never call me horrible, and that only makes it worse. 

Rose is beautiful, like her name. Her sparkling laugh and golden-brown hair and clever eyes are all beautiful. So of course I love her,  wholly and stupidly, because everyone does. She loves me too, wholly and platonically, because she loves everyone that way. And it's the fact that I love her in a way she could never love me that makes me so revoltingly, puke-inducingly horrible.

Rose doesn't love me. She loves Blake, and Blake isn't beautiful. At least he's not horrible. He's...Blake. And the sad truth is that all Blakes are the same. 

I'm going too quickly here. I'm Ella, and I love girls, and I especially love Rose, and Rose loves boys, especially Blake. 

Yes, this is one of those stories. I'm not sorry for that. For like I said, I am horrible.