I have a confession to make. You’re probably going to make fun of me when I say this, but I don’t really care because I’m not going to change.
I am a Nicholas Sparks FANATIC.
I have read every single book he’s ever written (except the newest one I was saving for my trip to the beach this weekend.) And I have seen every single movie that has been derived from his books, to the point where I can annoyingly quote them whenever I decide to watch one.
With that being said, you can imagine how skewed my expectations of love were for the longest time. Mr. Sparks definitely sets the bar high when it comes to romance and “relationships”, if that’s what you want to call what happens in his books. But a little over three years ago, something happened that made me take a step back and examine my outlook on love.