“You could write a brilliant love story.”

That’s what the creative writing teacher had said. I could write a brilliant love story. And that is what my assignment was: write a brilliant love story.

Words usually came to me. I couldn’t remember a time where I’d had to dig deep for them, where it wasn’t effortless. But here I was, prepared to write, but no words coming. The pencil that would ordinary be scribbling furiously in an attempt to keep up with the flow of words from my mind stood perched on the paper, motionless, purposeless, and sad. I had nothing.

A brilliant love story.

An infinite number idea swirled around in my head. Forbidden love. A prince and princess. A modern day fairy tale. An ugly girl falling for the popular boy. A beautiful girl falling for her best friend. But none of them would turn into a tangible, explicit story. None of them would give me a plot or characters.

I thought to the place where I could almost always draw inspiration for my stories and poems: my life. I thought back to old flames, to the boys who used to possess that rare ability to make my heart beat faster, the ones whose texts made my day, who could make me smile just by saying hello. But all of those stories followed the same line: I liked a boy, I admired him from afar for ages, and then I got over him. There was little variation between them, other then the one time he’d had a girlfriend. I’d never told a boy of my feelings, I’d never done anything to try and get him, and I’d never had a real relationship or even a one-night stand. Nothing. I’d never been loved.

I’d never been in love, either. I’d stepped in it, but I’d never truly fallen in love. I’d never experienced the kid of love that could take my breath away, the kind that made me want to spend my life with a boy. I’d never met a boy who I thought might be the one for me. I’d experienced puppy love at most, if that even. It made me doubt. I must have seen millions of boys in my life, and none had ever made me feel that special, blissful, walking-on-air feeling that you get when you find your true love. I’d had so many first dates, but none had ever evoked anything in me. If none of the millions of boys I’d seen was right for me, was anyone?

How could I write about something I wasn’t even sure I believed in?

A brilliant love story. It was a brilliant love story with no plot, no characters, no deep meaning, and a cynical writer.

Words were still not coming. My pencil had not made a move since I had started.

I hoped my teacher’s expectations were not so high, because after hours of trying, all I wrote was,

“I can’t write a love story. I’m not in love.”