I open my email, my regular account first, and my second. The usual list of orders is there, too many for my taste, but I open the first one. His name is John Carrow, jcarrow5@yahoo.com and he's given me absolutely everything I ask for on the site and more. A picture, first meeting, quirks, and it's detailed. Her name is Stephanie and she's absolutely perfect. Smooth skin, clear blue eyes, long dark hair that gently frames her heart shaped face. He met her as a poor college student working at a cafe. Her friends had dragged her in for a birthday celebration and he had to serve her cake and sing œHappy Birthday to her. She'™d grinned and laugh and he asked her out then and there. She accepted to his joy and they'd been dating since. I smile. He's so sweet in all of his responses and I set to work writing, but for some reason the poem seems sappy, not something he'd say at all. So I erase and start over. For the first time, writing a to order love poem is hard. I restart, careful to catch who I think he is. Your laugh charmed me first, and then the way you blushed, shyly, but with a hint of a smile behind it and your blue eyes shining, the way you nibble your hair like a little girl trying to break a bad habit, the way you lean in a little closer when I say something intriguing, the way you let me into your apartment even when it'™s a mess, because you trust that I will overlook it, your willingness to do something you hate just because it makes me happy, and I'm so, so glad that I can call you mine. I look it over and it sound like I imagine him, sweet and adoring, but still somewhat protective. It'™s short but I think it will do and I attach it to the reply, and, spur of the moment, type "œCongratulations! You have won the free poem of the week!" There'™s no such thing, of course, but he doesn'™t know that. I click send and move on through the next few emails, cranking out about three poems before I come to a name I know. Rhys Thistle, a high school friend of mine. Excited to see what he'™s up to, I open it and read the little note at the top. "œThis is for someone I haven'™t seen for a long time, and she has an appreciation for good poetry. I hear yours is decent and I hope it lives up to the expectations." He says she's witty, romantic (though she won't let anyone know), smart, generous, and a really fun person. I feel a twinge of jealousy. He doesn'™t give her name or a picture. Cryptic, I think to myself, a bit bitter. I'm so excited for him, because he'™s always been a bit on the shy side with girls in general. I think I was the only one he'™d talk to without prompting. I read on and then freeze when I come to the "œHow We Met" section. I quickly read it over again, not quite believing what it says. "I was a bit of a nerd in seventh grade to say the least and she was just this nice, pretty girl that I only dreamed of talking to. One unfortunate day I was walking to class when my lunch fell out of my backpack. I went to get it but a boy I loathed got to it first. I walked to him and tried to grab it away, but he simply got be my the arm and ground my food into my hair. After a good deal of wimpy fighting on my part, I got away, only to run straight into her. We both fell, her harder than I, and I helped her up and noticed a great deal of peanut butter and jelly had gotten on her too. I apologized a million times, but she just laughed and helped me clean us both up." I stand up, gasping with pleasure and surprise. She was me! He was talking about me! I spin around, too giddy for my own health and then try to calm down enough to sit back down. I finally do and eagerly keep reading. "Appearances: Soft dark brown hair, golden brown eyes like a tiger, darker skin a dark caramel color, not very tall, bold but pretty features." I look at my reflection in the window. My eyes are just brown, my hair somewhat coarse, my skin more dusty than dusky and I'™m nowhere near pretty. He'™s always been one to flatter. I read on, more about me and then I come to the painful realization that I either have to fake my ignorance or simply tell him who I am. Do I write the poem and act surprised? Or do I just say, hey, that was me, thanks for the thought? I want to throw myself on the ground and giggle until I fall asleep, ignore the problem entirely. But instead I turn off the computer and walk away, trying to busy myself with something entirely unrelated, but as I eat dinner, I cannot think of anything but that shy boy with a slow smile that warms its way into his eyes. I;ve decided to try again. The computer is a bit slow, and it only gives me more time to hesitate. It'™s finally done and I immediately go to his message, trembling slightly as I begin to type frantically, heart beating in my throat. The words come easily, thank goodness but it's so open and frank it hurts to see it on paper. His smile melts like warm chocolate, gentle and his eyes crinkle with his laugh, and there never was that romantic pull that I was expecting from a guy, instead it's just this comforting warmth that makes me feel as if there'™s nothing that can ruin my day while I'™m with him. He looked at me and my heart tightened with happiness, he flatters me and I can'™t help but take it to heart, and then there's that perfect moment, when you seem to be the only two beings alive and you cannot stop discussing universes and hoping, deep down, somewhere that you don't even know that maybe, just maybe he wants you back. -Gabe I click send before I can change my mind and fall back in my seat, so tense that it hurts. I turn off the computer and walk into my bedroom and flop down on my bed, and I'm dozing before I even know it. I wake up to my doorbell and I stand up, looking at myself. I'™m a bit of a wreck, really, but I know it's just the neighbor, saying that I was far too loud Saturday, or Hannah, come to complain about something. The front room's a mess, but it's not like I really mind. I open the door and gawk. It'™s him, three years later, grown up and unshaven, jeans and a t-shirt on, nothing special, and he looks stunned, as if he has no idea why he's standing here, and then he thrusts flowers at me, lilies, and we don'™t say anything. I step back, he walks in, and I put the flowers down. "Rhys," I finally say. He smiles and I melt a little bit. "It'™s me." "I can't believe--” what a coincidence." "You've resorted to writing love poems for desperate men?" I laugh sheepishly. "Poems for anyone." "But mostly for desperate men." He steps forward and takes the flowers from my hand, putting them down on the coffee table and then he embraces me, pulling me into a hug and he smells good, fresh and masculine. He looks me in the eye. "œGabriella, I don'™t know why I was so foolish enough to let you go just because I was too afraid to say anything." "Oh, Rhys, it'™s okay." "œNo, it's not." "I'™ll forgive you."