Childhood Dreams (working title)

A young woman finds her childhood dreams incarnate....in her high school teacher.

There are little girls who believe: in princesses, in unicorns, in their parents, in princes on stately white horses, and white weddings. 
I was never one of them. 
I dreamed of going to college and becoming the woman my mother never was, to live the life that she insists she could have had if it were not for her utterly selfless dedication to her children, if not for my brother and I. She boasted of glory days and of achievements that I now realize were the ramblings of someone who had long since lost themselves on the long, meaningless road that we call life, but she refused to admit it. No matter what the reality is, my mother will always live trapped in the good ol' days, using plastic surgery and drastic diets to preserve the days of her youth, just a ghost of the beauty she had once been. 
As her daughter, I could only dream as I watched her and my father fight until there were no more words left to be spoken, only bruises to hide and affairs to continue. I dreamed of being better. I dreamed of being a mother. I dreamed of growing up and moving somewhere far, far away from the pretty white house on the lake that hid all its ugliness behind stained-glass double doors. And although I would never admit it, I dreamed of finding a man who would treat me better than my father treated my mother. I dreamed of finding someone who could take care of the five-year-old little girl inside of me, better than my parents did. 
Then, under the bright, fluorescent lights of the history classroom in my private Catholic high school, I found him. 
He was aging, bald, married with three kids, and I worshiped him. His eldest daughter was the same age as my younger brother and I knew her distantly, as a friend of a friend just a couple of years younger than I was. Every day, I would watch her go into his office after school and they would re-emerge together and head to his car together. I was strangely fascinated by this daily occurrence and would often purposely wait outside his office with a question that I already knew the answer to, just to catch a few snippets of their conversation. He clearly doted on her and I loved seeing this side of him - a softer, sweeter, gentler side of the coolly commanding presence he exuded in class. As a teacher, he got mixed reviews. He was an easy grader but endlessly condescending in the classroom, helpful but distant, cold but also with a sharp sense of sarcastic humor that never failed to make us giggle like the schoolgirls we were. And I loved him, or at least I thought I did. I was sixteen, hurt, alone, and utterly lost. He was in his forties and in complete control of all that was around him. 
It was no wonder that I was inexplicably drawn to him. From the perspective of the five-year-old girl inside of me, he was the father I never had. From the perspective of the sixteen-year-old young woman, he was a challenge. A vice. Someone I could never have, which is what made me want him so much more. I longed to find someone other than the boys my age, who could never capture my interest for more than a couple of weeks. What I really wanted was to grow up, to be sophisticated and intelligent, to be more beautiful and talented than the woman my mother used to be. He was all of my childhood dreams, wrapped in one. But he was also my teacher, and I was still just a child in his eyes.
I was attracted to him physically, but I craved intimacy more. I wanted him to dote on me, like he doted on his own daughter. I became addicted to the drops of praise he so sparingly gave, studying hours after the midnight oil had burned out. I would've done anything to please him. 
Soon after turning sixteen, I attempted suicide and was committed to a psychiatric facility. In my broken, shattered state, I found my hands shakily writing him a thank-you card. He never replied and we never talked about it. It wasn't inappropriate by any means - I was ever the perfect student. But a part of me hurts knowing that he knows he saved my life and having it change absolutely nothing about the fact that we are separated by age, his family, his job, and the vast cruelness of the universe. 
But I also remember the way he looked at me the first time he saw me after I returned to school, in the hallway. I was vulnerable and burning with anger and terrified, all at the same time. His blue eyes were soft and he used that voice, the voice he used with his daughter, when he spoke to me. 
"Hi...welcome back," he greeted me, but there were so many more words and questions that I knew remained unspoken as he paused with his hand on his office door. "Happy new year."
"Thank you," I faked a smile. "Happy new year."

Author's Note

This is a work in process. I'm completely open to suggestions on how I could improve this piece of fiction - I've been reading a lot of narrative-style writing lately and wanted to write something in the first person. What I'm most concerned about is the pacing in this piece because there isn't really a strong plot. Please feel free to comment below with your suggestions on how to improve, ideas to add in, or anything else. Thanks for reading!