Summary: She is not Juliet, and he is not her Romeo.

Prologue: Soliloquy

She is not beautiful.

She is not graceful, nor majestic, nor lovely in a way exceptional. She is not very smart, nor witty.

She has plain brown hair, and plain brown eyes, and an otherwise average figure.

She is not rich, and she is not poor. She is not tragic, she is not haunted.

She just simply is.

She lives in a town where her father works, and she goes to a school where she does not care to know anyone. There is nothing about her that would set her apart. You see a face no different from any other. You see clothes that don't call for attention. Dull, indifferent eyes stare back at you

She is a girl who-by no fault of her own-exist in a bubble of her own familiarity. She wakes up every morning, and she falls asleep every night. She has never missed her curfew. Her parents feel little need to discipline.

She knows little of the Greasers and the Socs, and she has never bothered herself with this fact. She finds is ridiculous.
She simply does not care.

She lives in a house that is not too big, nor too small. It has three bedrooms, and one bathroom, and three hallways with pictures of her early years hanging limply by rusty nails in the wall.

They were not feuding, as they had nothing to fight about. They never expected to fall in love. They were just victims of circumstance.

Her name is Lisa, not Juliet, and his was not Romeo. Hers was never a story worth telling until she met him. Even now, as you read this, it is not remarkable. It is simply a small dot in the timeline of history. No one years from this moment will care about her awkward high school romance, or in the manner that they went about it. Lisa Stipe and Ponyboy Curtis are not important to the world.

Love. She was in love. Deeply, truly in love.

Love. She knew, rarely ended happily