We both knew our story would end here, but I always imagined that as Jake pulled me close to his tux-covered chest with family and friends gathered around snapping these happy memories, I would be wearing the white dress.

"This is our last dance, Nifer," he murmured in a low voice that barely made it through the band music to my ear.

I rested my head on his shoulder to quell the tears forming in my eyes before managing, "then make it the best dance, my love."

The music soared around us, and for a few last moments, he was mine, and we were lost in each other. The clock's seconds ticked by to the drums' steady rhythm as he spun me in his arms. I closed my eyes and allowed myself one brief moment to memorize the feeling of his warmth pressing into me, the smell of his musk filling my nose, and the sound of my heartbeat screaming out to him.

But as quickly as it started, the song came to an end. I wanted him to cling to me. I longed for this story to be different. I wished I were wearing the white dress. But as he reluctantly pulled me from his chest, I caught a glimpse of my black dress; black, the color of mourning. This was not our story.

I met his eyes, and briefly, I thought he would allow his forehead to slip to mine. His peppermint-laden breath would course over me, and the dark hair that always carelessly fell into his eyes would tickle my face. But he resisted, as he should. He lifted my hand to his lips and gave it one last lingering kiss before turning to the arms of his waiting bride.

Jake Miller was gone. I watched each pace he took away from me and felt them drive like daggers into my chest. The crowded dance floor soon collapsed on me. The backs of joyful dancers provided me with my own private space to bleed, to grieve.

I had always known Jake. I was born on an otherwise dull and drab day in March. Even though they lived two hours away at the time, the Millers were the first people to see me, aside from my parents, of course. On the mantel above the fireplaces of both mine and Jake's sat the same picture of two-year-old Jake holding two-hour me; it was not my best look.

My mom and Jake's mom had been best friends since childhood. Every holiday, vacation, and life moment happened with the Millers. During more than a few fights, I would announce that I wished Beth was my mom. Beth Miller was my idol. Everything seemed easy and effortless with her. My mom was far less cool. She was cut from the nagging cloth. Although I am sure as Jake grew up, Jake idealized my mom, Carol Morse, in his own arguments with Beth.

Aside from the Millers, my other life constant was Ariana Chung; everyone called her Ari. She had been my best friend since pre-school. On the first day of school, I liked the way she said mittens. She said it in a way that you could hear both t's. I admired that, and so, in the way that four-year-olds do, we became best friends. That was my network for the first eleven years of my life: the Millers and Ari.

I had been madly, undeniably, and impossibly in love with Jake Miller for as long as I could recall. Some beginnings you don't remember. I don't remember my first breath, nor my first skinned knee. Most would probably say they remember the first time they fell in love, but I don't. Falling in love with Jake was life. When you are young, love is easy and lasting. The slightest of crushes as a child is the same emotional rollercoaster as an entire relationship in your twenties. When you're young, you are open; fearless to any prospects of hurt or pain. Just like I had always felt my heart beating within my chest and my lungs thoughtlessly filling with air, I had always been in love with Jake. Then he moved next door.

When Beth and Dan Miller divorced, Beth went to the one place that felt like home: to her best friend, my mom. I was eleven years old, and I still remember the rumbling of the moving truck making my house shake as it pulled into our shared driveway. I hadn't been able to sleep the night prior because I would see Jake... every day. I peered through my pink unicorn curtains and watched as Beth and Jake pulled in right behind the truck. My mom was already in the driveway, followed closely by my dad. Jake got out of the car and leaned against it with his arms crossed. Even from the distance of my window and with his face obscured by his baseball cap, I could tell he was not happy.

Jake didn't want to move, and he didn't want his parents to split. I couldn't imagine not wanting to live where I lived. Between our houses was a dirt driveway, and at the end of that driveway was Stone Lake. It was my private haven. There was no need to go to the town pool or beach when you could jump off your own dock. My dad always let me decorate a small tree on the frozen shore in the winter using an extension cord from the garage. I loved to look out my window and see it. The lights twinkled against the iced-over lake in a hypnotic way that mirrored the stars above. I always thought I was the luckiest kid in the world to live on the lake.

As cool as an eleven-year-old bursting with excitement could be, I walked casually outside to greet our new arrivals and hug Beth.

"There's my girl," she beamed as she engulfed me in her arms. Beth always smelled like lavender. I inhaled deeply every time we hugged to make sure I could memorize her scent.

"I missed you," I smiled as I pulled away.

"Well, miss me no more. Soon you will be sick of us," she teased with a glance at Jake. I could see a moment of worry flash across her face, but by the time she turned back, it was gone, and her serene beam was washing over me. "Jake, come say hello."

He kicked the dirt as he made his way around the car. "Hey, Carol," he murmured as he hugged her.

Jake and my mom always had a special bond. My mom once told me that he would insist on sleeping in our tent for a few years during our annual camping trips to protect the 'Morse girls.' My dad would always chime in then with some cheesy dad joke about how an eight-year-old would probably be better protection than him anyway.

"Jake, I'm so glad you're here." My mom was soft with him, protective.

When they broke away, Jake extended a hand to my dad, "hello, Stan."

"Jake, happy to have another man around the lake," he smiled with a wink to my mom.

"Hey," I beamed; I couldn't hold in the excitement that he might hug me too.

"Hey, Nifer," he murmured distantly without even looking at me.

I was devastated and had to bite my cheek to keep from crying. I could not cry, not now, not in front of him. I took a small slice of solace that he still used my nickname. Most had started calling me Jen; Jake was the last holdout to Nifer and, while I hated it, I loved it when he used it.

"Jake, why don't you and Jen catch up at the Morse's while we get this heap inside and sorted?" Beth had seen my disappointment.

"I want to get my room unpacked. Can't I wait here for when the movers get the boxes to me?" There was an annoyance in his voice I had never heard before. That was the moment that I decided that I was not in love with Jake Miller. I was a free agent.

"Mom, can I invite Ari over to swim? I promise we'll stay out of the way; we'll stick to just the dock and my room." I tried to sound cool, like Jake hadn't just snuffed out a piece of my heart.

"Sure, honey, whatever you want," my mom absently spoke as she began to pull a box of breakables out of Beth's car.

"Wait, I thought I couldn't come over today. I thought you were spending it with Jakey," Ari teased over the phone.

I hated how she said his name. Partly because she deliberately said it mockingly and somewhat because she said his name at all. Adding an annoying y tacked to the end made my stomach churn. Jake was mine.

"I'm over him. He's not as cute as I remembered. I think I like Cory Stills more," I mused, hoping she would believe me.

"Oh, Cory is cute, and he plays baseball. Baseball players are always handsome. I like him too!" She blabbed excitedly. That was the great thing about Ari; you could easily distract her with boys. She liked them all. "I'll be over in 20 minutes," she added before hanging up. Ari never said goodbye; when she was done, she was just done.

I sat down on the porch steps and watched the movers and my parents move a whole life into the house next door. Every once in a while, Jake would come down to poke around the boxes, grab one, and head back inside. He was cute but not the classic attractive. He was always tall but not gangly. He was strong, like he could be a quarterback, with a mop of erratic dark brown hair that his mom would call a bouffant because she could never get it to calm down. It was always falling in his face, but I could tell Jake liked that. He could hide his eyes that way. His eyes were dark pools of black. You almost couldn't tell where the pupil ended, and the iris began. But they were also the most expressive eyes in the world. With one glance, you could precisely see what he was thinking. My mom would say his eyes proved he had an old soul. All eleven-year-old me knew was that I loved to look into them. Night after night, I would dream of gazing into his eyes for as long as I wanted. I would brush the hair out of the way, and he would smile back at me. When he smiled, his lips parted to a jack-o-lantern smile that prick dimples on his cheeks.

Almost 20-minutes later, on the dot, Ari's bike skidded to a stop in front of me, shattering my thoughts of Jake.

"Hey," she beamed as she bounded up the stairs. "This is so cool," she added as she gestured around to all the boxes and furniture. Ari loved change.

"I promised my mom we would stay out of the way." I tried to sound bored of the whole situation as though I was above it. "Besides, I want to do my nails before school starts next week."

"Me too! I also brought all my magazines so we can be on top of current events."

Ari's parents let her subscribe to every teen magazine in existence. They bored me, but sometimes the silly quizzes were fun. We lounged on towels on the dock for the rest of the day, but I kept a watch out for Jake. He, however, never seemed to glance our way.

As he paced away from me now, getting swallowed by the festivities of his wedding, I wondered if he would glance back. My eyes clung to him as the crowd began to fill in between us. He didn't glance back; his pace did not falter; he was gone.