This ended up being very underwhelming. It didn't turn out how I wanted it to but I decided to post it anyway. Idk. Anyway, if you like my writing style I've decided to take requests. So yeah.

Perhaps it was the way her hair had flamed in the winter light, filtering through the trees. Or the way he could imagine her truly being a damsel in distress, perhaps one with a pricked finger in need of true love's kiss, and he, the valiant dragon slayer would be the one to deliver (he would soon learn how far from a damsel she was, but his mind never would quite let him forget the image). If it had been either of those things then it would be considered love at first sight, which didn't exist so it couldn't have been then.

Still, even so, he walked up and separated the girl from Billy, doing his best to be the hero from his quick daydream. He had never wanted to sock someone in the face as much as he had in that moment.

But then again, perhaps it was the way she ignored him, and spoke but a few words to him.

He didn't fancy himself as a player of any sort, but yet he had grown accustomed to the incessant side glance from his school mates of the female variety, and was mildly taken aback at her abrupt dismissal of his efforts at conversation. All he needed was a name and he'd leave her alone. He just wanted to be acquainted with the fire haired girl. But she didn't relent and he was left chasing after her like the school boy he'd never before accepted he was, but what else could he call this. A forceful hand of friendship. No, that sounds disgusting. I'm just trying to be kind.

Finally she turned an acknowledged him, after he'd trailed her all the way to school, watched her long braids swish back and forth. He had been wholly unprepared for the moment when he eyes finally met his. His lungs no longer knew their function and he was left trying to quiet the ungentlemanly squeak that was trying to erupt from his lips. Finally he got a simple, "I'm" only to be interrupted by the pack of boys who dragged him away from the prized accomplishment that was seeing her eyes. Brilliant.

It also could've been the wave of protectiveness that washed over him when they said the word orphan with disgust.

Besides, it could be a rather romantic notion couldn't it? An orphan that was left to be swept off her feet by her very own dragon slayer? He would later learn that she didn't find being an orphan romantical at all, but in the young ignorant mind of his, it fit. He would be her prince charming, and she'd be his spark. His fiery red ember.

Her voice. God her voice. The emotion. The enunciation. The tone.

His mind was as speechless as his tongue was thoughtless. If she could read him to sleep every night he was sure he could be perfectly happy for the rest of his days.

It wasn't, he was sure, when she smashed her slate over his head.

For what kind of masochist could he be for that to be the moment? The kind who grins and makes a snarky comment besides the pain in his head. Her eyes, oh her eyes, look at them. His unexplainable glee was short lived however, when she was dragged to the front of the room to be humiliated.

He had thought for a long time that it was the way she set her face straight. They way her inner strength emanated so clearly that the wind was knocked out of him and he was left entirely thoughtless as she began to walk with such purpose towards the door.

Even back then, his mind had betrayed him and molded her face into a light smile, and her clothes to a long white gown. Her defiant walk turned into only that of a woman walked purposefully towards her to be husband at the end of the aisle. He had, however, quickly shaken the thought tried to act undisturbed by his imaginations boldness.

This boldness, however, might've also been it.

For in the long weeks she was gone, his mind often revisited his imaginings. She, the princess of whom he had awoken from a long slumber with his heroic kiss (a detail that no matter when and where it crossed his mind, he was left with a dopey smile that he would try and play off as simple contentedness at whatever was going on. This was swiftly disproved after a particularly large smile had emerged during Mr. Phillips' excessively bland lecture on algebra). His princess would awaken, her hair glinting the sun, and his mind would be clear of anything but her. He was completely lost and he'd only known her a day.

This same boldness, however, took a severe downfall the longer his dear orphan princess stayed away. Instead of a smile, he'd find a troubled grimace on his face. He feared he was to blame. Her brilliant mind had been wounded by his unintentional flirtations.

The first time he'd seen her in what felt like forever, she was being engulfed by the flames of a house fire. It was one of the first times he had uttered her name in her presence, and he felt his heartbreak for he was certain it was be the only time as well.

This, however, was not the last time he would encounter her, but it was the first time he'd truly experienced the full extent to which her mind worked, leaps and bounds further than his ever could. She'd smothered the fire. Screw her eyes, her mind is even more intoxicating.

Perhaps it was the next day when she came with the cookies. And Billy teased her and yet he couldn't find it in himself to be as hostile as he probably should've been. He was too overwhelmed with the image Billy had created in Gilberts mind. Anne in the kitchen. Not just any kitchen. Their kitchen. Making cookies for him while he chopped fire wood. He worked on autopilot after that, climbing down to help Ruby, his domestic day dream playing behind his eyes the whole time.

And yet wouldn't she just be the one to ignore him. After he gallantly picked Ruby up and defended her honor (a dramatization of the simple retort he'd given Billy, never the less he felt hero worthy). His dejection would last for another week, while he waited for school to start up.

It could very well have been during the spelling bee, her clutching her stomach curiously and him studying her every feature. The image of her cooking for him invaded his mind again, of her in a beautiful gown being the princess she felt she was. His focus was already shaken and then Mr. Phillips said that word and expected him to spell it without a hiccup.

It wasn't when she and her friends came to his house with a casserole, surely. He was heartbroken and angry with Anne, and angry with the world and all around not good. It wasn't. But then "Anne made the topping" was said and he was lost. Anne with an apron. Anne being his dearest friend. Anne being much more than she'd ever be willing to be.

"But I'd make a terrible wife." What. The urge to chase after her and convince her otherwise was overwhelming, but he couldn't just dash away from the other girls. They had names. What were they again?

He had a niggling feeling that it could've been the moment he saw her in the pawn shop. Doing such a hard thing for her family. And then when he saw her eyes up close, he'd never get used to them.

"Can we please not argue." We can do that when we're married.

But he wasn't sure until he was walking away from her and Jerry. Sometimes he still wasn't sure after that. But the unignorably vicious pull he felt when he turned his back, as if his whole being was begging him to turn around and look at her one more time. To grab her and never let go.

He kept walking.

But he wouldn't ever forget the look she gave him. As if she felt it to.

Yes, I think I will come home someday. I'll come home to Anne, wherever she may be.

He didn't know, and he never quite figured it out. He only knew that at some point in time, some indiscernible, undeniable, irrevocable moment in time, he had fallen hopelessly in love with his darling Anne.