"Hopeless romanticism" is a concept realists find trouble in empathizing with but find no trouble in laughing at. While the romantics sit at coffee shops and attempt to read, with their eyes actually, restlessly darting around the room, trying to spot the person who should walk up to them any second now to compliment them, sit down, buy them a second cup, and fall in love, the realists are across the room at table number four, bouncing around dry sentences that are completely wrung out from any belief in so-called true love. Katie may say to Carrie, who nods her head in agreement, that "love is an illusion, something people dreamed up to ward off the haunting idea that we are born alone, live alone, and die alone" under the pretext that Danny broke up with her on the night of prom.

Katie and Carrie are realists who "joined the club" two years ago. Said club consists of people whose force field against often attached heartbreak is to simply stop believing in love. They don't want to feel stupid either, because being super thrilled for a few months and then having to tell your family and friends that it didn't work out is embarrassing. They don't want to be fools, but they certainly are fools in believing that being a romantic gets you nowhere.

The reason I'm so sure of this is that even though I died when I was nineteen, long before having the chance to even meet my soul mate (I think), I still managed to end up with more than most people for the sole fact that I truly believed in love. I believed (and still believe) that it always conquers and that for one, it exists. I believed (and still believe) that it always conquers and that, for one, it exists. Now you're probably all "What? Devon, you just said that you died. Why the eff are you talking like you're still alive?" Yeah, well, my afterlife is not really the norm, to say the least.

I was working at the market on a Sunday morning, just like I had been doing three Sundays before and three Sundays before that. My mom and dad owned a booth since I had been seven. Dad took care of the pumpkins and other veggies, and Mom took care of the finer details, like the flowers, the wrapping, and the chalkboard signs that read "Freshly Picked, 100 percent Organic" and "Three for $5." I took care of making the customers laugh with my big brown eyes, chubby cheeks, and child wit. The older I got, the more I could do, and now they even let me run the booth on my own during the afternoon.

So it was Sunday, and fate just wasn't on my side. This young guy, probably five years older than me, was looking pretty nervous as he chose some tomatoes and fresh basil. Then right before leaving, he noticed my mom's arrangements and pulled out another $8 from his leather wallet, and I swear, that change pocket was alive with metallic rhythm; his hands were shaking so much. He handed me the cash from his last-minute purchase, and his phone began ringing. The short conversation confirmed my forming suspicions.

"Hey, you. You're still coming to my place later, right? Good. I can't wait either. Yeah. Yeah, I have something superimportant to say. Well, it's more of a question really. Of course, I'm cooking. There's no way we're getting takeout tonight. OK, yeah. I love you too. Bye."

Definitely proposing. Definitely. He thanked me for "everything" and left. He wasn't the type to walk too far for a crosswalk, so he looked quickly both ways and dashed to the other side before the white Jeep coming from the left could reach him. I returned to split vision so that I could add to my sales notebook and still be aware of new customers. That's when I saw a blur of pale yellow on the counter in front of the cash; he forgot the roses for his girlfriend. I have this instant image flash in my mind of his perfect night being ruined or at least watered down. People underestimate the power of flowers. Quickly following the vision, my body was filled with a rush of heroism in the name of love. I asked our neighbor Joyce to watch my booth for a minute, said I'd be right back.

I too didn't bother with the crosswalk and got to the other side easily enough; one car went by, and I saw the next few would only reach the spot I was at in a minute. The guy was already in his car. His blinker was on, and he was ready to pull out, but he noticed my out-of-breath figure with the flowers held high in a Statue of Liberty pose but with elaborate waving motions in his rearview mirror. I came around the car to the passenger side, and he rolled down the window before I was quite there.

"No way, man. I can't believe I did that. Thank you so much seriously. People underestimate the power of flowers, you know?" I said I know because I did know. It had been my exact thoughts, and I have not a single doubt that, by this time tomorrow, this man will be engaged.

"I gotta get back to the other flowers," I said.

Right away, he replied, "Same, same. I got some spaghetti to get cooking."

"Don't forget the onions." At first, his expression told me he had no clue why I would tell him not to forget the onions, but then recognition flooded his face, and he laughed. I only said it to tease him about forgetting the flowers.

"Good luck," I said genuinely this time. He thanked me again and drove off. For a few moments, my eyes followed his car, and then I stepped back into the road, lost in thoughts of what his girlfriend might look like and what her expression might look like when he pulls out her ring.

It was because I wanted his night to be perfect as much as he did, and it was because I kept thinking about it after I made sure that it would be that I died. This time, I didn't look both ways or even one way when I was crossing where there was no crosswalk. My mom and dad had me, and then they decided to sell things at a farmers' market on Main Street. I began working there, and then one Sunday, a man came who only noticed flowers at the last second. Then his girlfriend called at that exact moment, and he probably got excited just by hearing her voice, and the flowers slipped his mind as images of her filled it up. I had to deliver them, and that other driver had to get somewhere fast, so he was above speed limit even though, maybe, on most days, he respects the roads.

It wasn't someone's fault, but something went wrong somewhere. Just like some things are meant to be, I was meant to no longer be. So the world teamed up and worked pretty rigorously to create a sequence of events that would lead to my demise.

There was nothing, and then there was a thud. The car was the bullet, and I was the body, shot from a gun at lightning speed and irreversible, except it didn't lodge itself into me. I could barely see as it happened, but I remember there being the most extreme pain of my life, shards of glass severing into my eyes and torso and then nothing. Nothing. The car hit me at the right or wrong spot, depending on how you look at it. I don't think too much about the circumstances of my death anymore because there are more important things to spend my mental energy on, namely, the new case that I've been assigned to.

Any romantic bashers out there might say, "See? Love kills." But I'm fine with that because everything does to some extent or another. But not everything saves. Not everything is worthwhile.

Following the accident and also after the strange time between life and death when my body was deciding if it was really over or if I was salvageable, I didn't come to a gate in the clouds or face...