It takes 8 to find the one

The very first was W. He had sat together with her, watching their favourite cartoon. Then he smiled at her, told her he liked her, and asked her to marry him when they were older. Anxious and worried, he asked his parents if cousins could be married. They simply smiled. And he was 4.

The second girl had an exotic name. He revered in those few blessed syllables, Lawrentia/Laurencia Khoo. It was too beautiful, to profound for him to spell.

The third was the primary school belle. Everyone adored her, admired her, praised her on account for her looks. All except a little fat, quiet girl who topped the class every year but couldn't understand why the former got so much attention. And of course, he paid attention to her, I mean, the belle, not the brain.

The fourth was another belle, co-belle, in more specific terms. She was so fragile, so sweet that he was almost sure she would crack like an egg if provoked. She had hyper-sensitive tear glands, and he felt inclined to protect her, because he couldn't afford to have them cured permanently, neither could he pay for dimple implants. The same fat girl was disdainful of her, of course; beauty and brains didn't mix.

The fifth was a nice, homely girl. She wasn't a belle, just an average Jane, but oh-so-nice Jane. He used to call her up to ask about homework, which, of course, would still be uncompleted the next day. If I really had to spell it out for you, yes, he called to hear her voice. Yet time wasn't on their side. He confessed too early. She realised too late. But they both liked each other all that while of pretence. maybe I'll dismiss it as a mild case of "Teen Tremor #13".

The sixth was a girl he liked from a distance. Funny, isn't it. Limitations over time and space. He wanted to shield her from all the nasty rumours, all the hate generated. His adoration was powerful enough to deflect, reflect, absorb and disintegrate them. But she was just too far, if she were much nearer she would have been blinded by the shine of the armour of the knight who would die for her.

The seventh hailed from the Southern seas. She was beautiful, affluent, and what else but influentially wealthy. She had everything she could ever ask for, save for a constant love. And he was more than willing to offer her what she lacked. They were the bestest of friends, and they loved each other. Though for her it was a kind of friendly love, maybe even a brotherly love. She refused him the answer he was waiting for, and it left him full of questions.

In between the seventh and the eighth he ran into the fat girl, now fifteen. Formerly fat girl.

The eighth was as sweet as the fourth. She was kind, sweet and wholesome. She had plenty of love inside her heart, for God, not him. He had hoped for some sort of reversal, because he had already envisioned her on a pedestral upon which he could worship. It never happened.

The One was void of any of the above qualities. She was a temperamental thing from the Northern seas, adept at cursing and swearing. She was a born Catholic, she went to church and prayed to God, but somehow some faith lacked in her. She had everything she ever wanted, save for love. Familial love. Romantic love to her was cheap, it was strewn all over her feet to be stepped upon, thrown in her direction haphazardly by bums who like all other men, were just sleep deprived. She was oddly beautiful in a mysterious way; she hadn't grown beautiful under nurturing conditions. Her beauty had been made solid by fending off cruelty, reinforced by heartaches and tears gone unwiped. He had taken pity on her, because she looked so confident with a cracking exterior, revealing old and fresh wounds. He never knew he had fallen in love with her, till he found himself dreaming of her.

Did I mention that she had shed all her blubber?