There are three people to love in every lifetime. Not friendly or familial love, these, but the kind of passionate attraction that causes mountains to move and cities to fall. Every person has three such loves, and every person serves as the object of these loves to three people, the same three, in fact. Each of the three people that a person loves has three loves, each serving a different role.

First, the true love of fairy tales. That one person who is so perfect in every way for an individual. A person who exemplifies another person's idea of perfection; the ideal love.

Next, the soulmate, the individualwho is a twin soul; equal, opposite, and yet the same in every wayto a person; irrisistable and yet terrifying in every fiber of being. A soulmate can be a passionate lover and very best friend in one body. These halves of the role are often not recognized concurrently, and the soulmate's potential is not fully realized.

The third great love is the person into whose life the individual is inadvertantly woven. This love is often never realized, or overshadowed by others, but is rather a quietly smoldering flame, burning for all eternity.

Love is wonderful, true, but terrible as well. A great, terrible, wonderful force. This is a story of love in all its forms, and of the horror that is heartbreak, loss of love; grief.

One thing was for sure, she loved him. She always had, if she remembered right. At least, she could never remember a time in which she had not loved him. He was just so... wonderful; always sweet and romantic, loving and tender, perfect. If only he had bestowed more of his affections onto her, instead of onto that other woman. Still, he jad always seemed to bestow affection at least somewhat equally between the two of them. But affection wasn't the thing, was it. No, it was never affection that was the key between the other two. With that, that woman, he had been able to reveal another side. "My Girl," he had called her, "My best, best friend." Apparently more, too, which she supposed was why that woman was wearing his ring. Damn, it was supposed to be on her finger! She had acted politely at the time, even as if she was happy for them. She wasn't.

That was why she was now running. Running, fast and in no particular direction, but she was not surprised when she reached his house. The house of her best friend. Her male best friend. Of course! Destiny! If the other two could be happy, so could she! Just with someone else. Maybe she had always loved them both, only her love for her best friend had been overshadowed by that for Mr. Perfect. Well, his car was in the driveway, so he was probably home. She rang the doorbell, but got no answer. He must be taking a nap. She let herself in with her extra key. "Hello!" She shouted, but got no answer. As she walkedinto te kitchen, she saw it.

A letter, alone on a table, almost as if it was waiting for her. After seeing her name on the top, she realized it was. She read on.

All these years, I have loved you in silence, content to be your best friend, your confidant in every matter. But it wore me down, watching you throw yourself at him -you know who I mean, that pretty boy you always fawn over. I needed to get out. Well you two can be happy together now, with me gone. I didn't wat to stick around to watch. This was should be less painful, anyways. No, don't blame yourself. It would hurt to think that I had caused you distress. Remember this, that it was my choice, and that I have always loved you. I am hanging from the tree in back, you can probably see it out the window.

He had signed his name at the bottom. Looking so hard for him inside before, she had not even thought to look for him outside. She did now. It took a few minutes for it to sink into her mind, even after she had seen the body out the window. By the time it had sunk in fully, she was running again, but this time with purpose. The bridge above the railroad. The 4:30 should be coming through soon, and she would be under it. She got there just in time, throwing herself down onto the tracks just before the train came.

After 18 cars of the train had run over her, the body was unidentifiable. Someone did know who it was, though. Me.

She was Lauren, and that was, is, and will always be her story. In her depression over the engagement of Kate and Joe, and her further despair over the death of Sam, her best friend, she never remembered the third man in her life. Our paths had crossed so often it couldn't have been an accident. It wasn't. I had loved her all along, and yet she never knew. Maybe she could have loved me, but fate was not so kind. My name is not important. That I loved Lauren is all that needs to be known, and is all that is important, at least to me. I will not go the same way as Sam and Lauren; there is already enough death in this world. Lauren is dead, this is her story, and she will always be remembered in at least one heart. Mine.