I had been sleeping soundly, nestled under my pink comforter in my room lined with pink ballerina bunnies, when I was awaked by the familiar shouts of my parents arguing downstairs.  I was eight then, and as I lay in bed listening to them scream and shout, I prayed that my little sister Halley, who was only four at the time, was in one of her sleeps where nothing could wake her up. The yelling escalated and I hugged my bear and my blanket tight, wishing that they would end already. This was turning into one of their longer fights. A moment of silence; it’s over I thought. Then my door flung wide open and my mom came and threw herself on the other side of my bed. She was crying hysterically and I froze, not knowing what to do. The light in the doorway changed and suddenly my dad was there. He threw my mom’s jacket at her. “If you want to leave then leave already,” he yelled. Then he was gone. My mom spent the rest of the night in bed with me, and my dad did not come home until the following evening.  My sister doesn’t remember that night, and for that, I am grateful. I am not so lucky however, as I remember that night clearly.  In fact, that’s the night I stopped believing in love.
Years passed and I grew older, and I watched my parents’ arguments worsen until they finally led to a divorce. I learned that they got married simply because they knew they were expecting a child, and not because they loved each other.
I made it through junior high and high school, but the years spent there only served to create a more cynical disbeliever.  I had my first relationship as a freshman in high school. The first night he called me at home, he ended the conversation with the words “I love you.”  I laughed it off and told him that I would see him the next day at school. The next three nights we followed the same routine. Finally one night, I gave in.  I said “I love you too,” but not because I really did, but because it was the thing to do.  Three weeks later I found he cheated on me over the weekend at a party and was trying to keep it from me.  It didn’t bother me though because I never grew attached to him, just like he had never been attached to me.
                I watched my friends, who the week previously claimed they were in love, cry their eyes out over a broken relationship. I watched my grandparents, after over 45 years, divorce.
While I knew that love did not exist, I learned that lust most certainly did. So I spent the first year of college having wild make-out sessions with boys. They told me that they loved me, and I told them that they loved my body. But that was okay with me because I was receiving attention, and I knew that wasn’t fake.  I knew that the passion between the ever changing male figure and me, was real and true, even if it was alcohol or drug influenced.
Chris changed all that.
During the summer before I came to college, I became actively involved in an online art site called DeviantArt where I would post my poetry. I used dA as an outlet, uploading my writings filled with emotion.  People would comment giving me constructive criticism or compliments, and some of those people left me notes about how they could relate.  One day, bored with nothing to do, I instant messaged one member of dA, Chris, who was constantly supportive, and who always related to my writing.  We began talking on a daily basis, and before I knew it, we were close friends. Then one day, he disappeared without a word. A month went by before he got back online, but during that month, something inside of me changed. I had been worried about Chris. I had been concerned. I cared.  I…no….I…had feelings for him. I learned that he had had mononucleosis and had spent a week and a half in the Intensive Care Unit as close to death as possible without actually being dead.
After that, he began to pop into my head as I was daydreaming in class. I would hurry home from work as quickly as possible just to be able to talk to him sooner. I would feel a pang of jealousy when he’d mention that he was trying to get back with his ex-girlfriend.  I didn’t realize how deep my feelings for him ran until one night, talking online, it happened. It slipped out, although it must have been pre-meditated because I knowingly typed it. I love you. The words came too easy, and as much as my mind said, ‘Oh no you don’t, you don’t believe in love remember?’ My heart and every other part of me were saying ‘Bullshit, it does exist, and you are in love.’ I waited nervously, staring at the blinking cursor in front of me, not knowing what kind of a response I would get from him. My chest was starting to hurt from holding my breath and I thought my pounding heart might explode at any moment when the words finally came. I love you too. A smile spread across my face that stayed there practically the entire night.  
The following weeks my heart wrestled with my mind as it fought to overcome this belief that I had held for ten years.  I knew I didn’t want to be in love, I had seen what ‘love’ did to people. I knew firsthand the pain and sorrow it creates. I knew that I was headed down that path, but somehow, didn’t care. I knew I had to meet Chris, that when I did, I would fall in love even more deeply. It didn’t seem to matter though. I was willing to go through anything to see him, to spend time with him, to tell him “I love you” in person.
That year my spring break was spent not in Mexico or in California, but rather Las Vegas. The ten hour drive there entailed an hour and a half scenic crawl through the Hoover Dam due to traffic, a speeding ticket, and several stops for gas. When I got into town I drove directly to the hotel that I was to stay at for the week. I dropped my stuff off and freshened up. I found the directions to his friend Mat’s house where I was to pick him up, checked myself in the mirror one last time, and headed out the door with more butterflies in my stomach than I’d ever had in my lifetime.  I managed to get there with little difficulty and as I walked to the door, I wondered if this was really what I wanted to be doing.  I froze in the pathway, my heart and mind struggling with each other once again. You could leave and he would never know you had been here. Why are you here anyway? You know you don’t love him. You don’t believe in love remember. All you have are some misguided butterflies.  I took a deep breath, shoved my negativity away, and stepped forward to knock on the door.  It opened and I stopped breathing as I looked at this person for the very first time.  Six feet tall with his red Mohawk glued into position, a safety pin sticking through his ear, a “Not my President” shirt, and bondage pants tucked into tall boots, he made me drool.  It was his smile though that made me melt.
We spent every moment of the next week together that we possibly could.  I learned more about him than I imagined a person could know about someone else. We went to bookstores and walked the strip. We people watched for hours sometimes pretending we were drunk just to get a reaction out of people. We did all those cutesy things that you groan at when you see a couple doing them, but when you do the same thing, somehow it’s ok. The week seemed to speed by, although I wish it had crawled, and as each day passed, I dreaded more and more the day I had to leave.
Friday afternoon, the last real time we had to spend together, we were lying in bed together after having watched a movie.  He was asleep next to me and as I stared at the ceiling listening to his breathing, I became lost in thought.  For every good memory I had that week that encouraged love, my mind countered back with two negative ones.  As much as I wanted to be in love, part of me would not give in.  I began mindlessly fiddling with the ring on my right hand.  It was a simple ring: small, silver, had a heart with an arrow going through it.  I bought it my freshman year of high school, and had worn it every day since.  I wanted to give it a specific meaning, but had never found a cause that seemed to fit it right as it was a little late for it to be a purity ring, and by no means was it a promise ring from that special someone. I struggled slightly to pull it off my finger, and in doing so managed to wake Chris up.  He rolled over and threw an arm over me pulling me in close.  “What are you doing?” he mumbled, still half asleep.  “I was just thinking,” I said absently. As the words trailed out of my mouth, and his arm tightened against my stomach a bit more, it hit me like a ton of bricks.
“Hey hun?” I asked, but my inquiry elicited nothing but another, less coherent mumble. I hesitated for a second, and then pressed my ring into the palm of his hand.
“This is for you.  I want you to keep it until the day you die. And as long as you have it, I will love you.”
His hand closed around it, and he buried his face against my shoulder and I could barely make out his smothered reply “I love you.” I closed my eyes and let out a deep breath.
I look at my parents. I know that once there was something there.  Regardless of what they say, I know at some point or another, they loved each other.  I look at my friends and my grandparents, and I know the same holds true for them.
It exists.  And every time I absently rub my unadorned right ring finger, I am reminded of this truth.