Where Did My Story Go?

If there was something, I couldn't find faults with, it was this. The pristine emotion essential to human existence and its continuity thereafter; LOVE. Not the kind you share with your parents, your siblings or your friends. The kind which dazes the senses and suddenly, the centre of your world decides to shift. The kind which commands care, compassion and as an added benefit, physical intimacy.
"So there I was, reveling in the joy of the new found first love, getting drenched in the rain while the surroundings didn't seem to matter any longer. There's little that compares to that feeling of a hazed delight. That love at first sight, reciprocated with the same intensity. A walking fairytale that the two of us were invited jealous stares wherever we went. At sixteen, I had what people crave for their entire lives; a love that would last eternity and beyond. Love and music, combined with chocolate, sweetened the air while my perception changed and I could see the true beauty in everything."
Only none of it ever happened. Where did my story go? Well past that ditzy age, it's not difficult to figure out that we have been oversold a certain emotion and it's accessories. You might never be able to stumble upon "the one" while sitting in a train compartment, that life might never give you a second chance with "the one who got away" (that is if you were lucky enough one time), there might never be a good enough "conversation" that makes you fall heels over in love with someone. The teenage fantasies we live and breathe and cherish and desire were just hokum which fed upon our insecurities and a basic human need of a spousal bond.
And as the realization dawns upon you, somehow it isn't accompanied with a sense of maturing but rather a sense of loss and nostalgia for something which in fact never existed. Real love will never resemble our imaginations, even for those lucky ones who may stumble upon it.
My story didn't go anywhere, it's there where it has always been; being played and replayed. Perhaps we let those stories fester in our minds for too long.
The defeated romantic in us might feel cheated out of its story but there is always a hope for the rational romantic who isn't looking to invite jealous stares, who doesn't want the air to carry music, who wouldn't decide upon "the one" after one long awkward gaze, who isn't chasing the juvenile dreams which were carefully crafted for us.
One day this romantic might lead us where the idealist (and now defeated) romantic never could; the love which will matter more than the story of it.