So I tried my hardest to capture that sort of freeform super passionate romantic writing. Turns out I just needed to try a new character. Completely just going for it, no hesitating, no editing, just writing and music with no filter. At the same time, I am not the same as I was four years ago, and a little bit of realism has crept into my work. So it is.

I'm pretty sure this new character I've never tried before is just who I needed, as well as someone all-too-familiar to me. Throw in a little controversial subject matter and a little flash and pizzazz, and the idea of diving off of the edge isn't entirely inaccurate a description.

There's a very important reason I'm pumping out a really overemotional super-powerful extreme romantic piece even when it takes more effort than I care to admit, and that's because it's a special someone's birthday. My capstone of emotional writing, the person whose style I've been jacking for four years now, and my closest friend as ever, Araceli L, whose birthday is today, that I certainly haven't forgotten. No one knows super passionate, no holds barred, emotionally unstable romance, so I figure I may as well serve her up a batch of fireworks-laden fluff that had an entire playlist behind it despite being like six pages long.

Hopefully y'all are feeling this post-Valentine's-day piece. It's not my year this year but I can fake it til I make it, and then I'm no longer faking it.

Disclaimer: I own my words, but the characters are borrowed vessels I hope I left in better shape than I got them.

I look up, still waiting for you. I'm gorgeous, I know I am. I spent forever making myself up for this. Picked the right dress- something that's elegant enough to count but real enough to not look like a facade. I can't stand facades. I can't stand anything but the truth. It makes me as rough as a razor with the same amount of destructive power that gets away from me, but it's the only way I know how to live. My hair is tied into a ponytail for once, one that feels like a whip against my back every time I turn around. I am a woman ready to take on the world, but I am not one for dancing on my own.

I look at the clock. You're cutting it close, baby doll. I'm not sure who I'm dancing with today, but I don't altogether care. The outside's just a shell, it doesn't make a difference to me. I don't need a difference to me. You need to decide whether or not there's a difference to you, and you need to decide it in the next five minutes or so, because I'm not going to be the girl waiting for her lover on the back of the wall next to all the other poor, unfortunate lonely fuckers.

I watch the others dance. It's all the big names. The hot names, the hot bodies, the hot songs, the hot outfits, the perfectly coordinated moving statues. Such is life. People are too obsessed with what's in their head and what's outside of them, even though they both rely on each other. Every time I see a dolled-up girl and an overly chiseled guy in a fancy suit and a show-stopper dress, I see some really empty heads with little exercise. I may be gorgeous, but there's a reason I've been a loner in this place. Even the other assist fighters wonder why I'm so biting and icy, but I can't help it. I'm bad at pretending. I just run forward blindly and treat life like a stage play so I can avoid consequences for my actions.

I mean, this looks nice and all, but there's no more of a real art than in the raw human spirit. That's why I just picked a white dress that sadly covered my midriff but still left me feeling rather perfect about myself regardless. It's enough to make me want to pick up a wine glass just to see myself in the reflection, but I'm not going to drink today. I want to be wide awake for this show.

Five-fifty-eight. Come on, baby. Don't leave a girl waiting. I hope the card on the box didn't scare you too much. I'm very abrupt with the people who I really want to talk to. Sure, I lure them in with flirtatious zingers, snarky bitchy comments, and abstract thoughts on the life we live in, but I can't help but be the center of attention. Then again, the note might have just been illegible. Lord knows I'm not known for my craftsmanship like you. You, the porcelain doll shell near to bursting that I kept battering until I got a crack into. You're someone who can sit down and create an identity like a sculptor creates artificial life in motion. Someone who caught my eye with a stunning appearance that transcended my distaste for organized perfection.

It's just now six. Come on, honey. Don't let me down now, you stupid ass.

Every second of that hour has me tapping my foot in time anxiously. Every tick of the red second hand feels like an acupuncture needle in a body made of failed experiments, such as trying acupuncture. I feel a heat rising in my chest so rapidly that if I opened my mouth I'd breathe fire, yet I'm shaking like I'm freezing my ass off. (Which might be the case, a knee-high strapless dress on a January night isn't my best example of pragmatism.) My eye is squarely on the door, waiting for someone to burst in. I want you to be alarmed, like you're worried you're going to miss me. I want you to run like a hero, with all of your untapped machismo you've restrained yourself from. I want you to be desperate for me, like any extra second would take me with it. I want you to want me like I want you. Don't let me down.

Fuck. It's 6:01. Please be late. I know I told you that if you were even a second late I'd totally walk out, but I'm a really shitty liar, okay? If it were anyone else, I'd just sashay like a pretty peacock out of there, waiting for someone else to snatch me off the dance floor, but that's in the part of the fantasy world we live in where people notice me on the wall, where people don't know I've reserved myself for someone whose eyes I can't remove my own from. But it's you, and you've made a fool out of me, because I'm still here, two seconds away from crying, too tied up in the idea of slow music, slow steps, and fingers on my waist like someone found me after a long journey. Whether they're footsteps in your mind or in the world, just find your way here.

Seriously. I'll only resent you a little for being late.

"Is something wrong, ma'am?" a brand new voice, distinctly a slightly husky yet still stony voice of a male, enters my ear. Christ, am I crying so much that I'm worrying strangers? I didn't know I was even crying, but there's at least a few tears streaking down my cheeks like they're trying to escape my own embarrassment. I try to find the words to explain why I'm so irrationally upset over one minute to this complete stranger. I guess I'm just super terrified of the idea of this all being a plan in my head that will never quite reach fruition that I just can't help it. I swallow down the fire in my throat before I begin to speak, not looking over so I can try and hide my embarrassment.

"I don't know…" I stutter so much that nine letters and three words become nearly twenty letters and five fractions of words, as sloppy as my own handwriting. "I guess I'm just hung up over something. Someone. An idea. A fantasy. Whatever."

The stranger taps me on the shoulder. "Why are you wasting your time on that?"

"You tell me," I hiss. "Cause I really should be out of here by now. I set a really strict deadline because I thought…" Why exactly did I do that? "Because I felt it would make me seem strong, like I was in charge, not like a desperate, pathetic, needy dumbass girl who's throwing herself to the wind."

"Ereka."

"At least you recognized me," I reply with a bitter laugh.

Apparently the stranger has finally given up dealing with my bullshit, and starts to turn past me. I expect him to walk past me, but he faces me, finally forcing me to look him in the eye. I find that I'm looking up, curse my short stature. It's hard to be intimidating when I'm both short and fearful like someone who can't quite reach the cliff root they're straining for, but I swallow the fire and look him in the eye. Wow, those are some red eyes. I don't think I've seen eyes that red since-

Oh for fuck's sake. Ereka Phosphora, you're as sharp as ever.

"Are you ready?" You ask. And wow, I just have to stand back. Zelda, or the artist formerly known as, I can see what you're talking about. And when you did, when you trusted me enough to confide in, I didn't really understand outside of an I-want-to-make-this-woman-happy type of way. I don't understand much, because like I'd always use to say to you, reality is as concrete as a vat of quicksand, so I just make up my own interpretations. But wow. Just wow.

"You're fucking hot," I blurt. You crack a grin. You're playing the machismo perfectly straight. You're a natural. "Like, seriously. If you ever have a moment of doubt that you made the wrong decision, trust me, you feel like the realest thing in the room right now."

You wrap a hand around my waist. "Even still?" you ask. It's made to sound a little cocky, but you can't help but let in a little of eager-puppy voice into the question.

"You tell me," I fire back. If it's a game, two can play. I've always been one for keeping you on your toes, baby doll.

"I feel…" you hesitate, as you've done too many times, so I reach up and cup your cheek. It used to be in a manner of an uppity girl who thought she was the life coach of the ages to a perfect princess, but being the end of the highest journey isn't half bad either.

"First word you think of, goober," I insist. "No bullshit. No grandstanding."

"Passionate."

Oh hell yeah. "It's about time, Sheik. You've been cooped up for too long. This guy, holding me like he's just the suavest motherfucker ever to walk, that feels pretty legit to me." I bury my head into your neck. Perhaps you being so much taller than I has its advantages.

"You deserve it," you say into my hair, your breath hot with every word. Is it January or the middle of July? "You are the reason I exist right now. You are the reason this is real."

"Nope nope nope," I correct way too quickly. "This is because of you. I'm just really pushy is all. And I would never have been so pushy if you hadn't given me the time of day. You and me, babe, we're sympatico. We bring out the best in each other."

"Your way of words is still stunning," you assure me. "I am surprised that I got here in time to catch you before someone else beat me to it."

"Glad you kept your way of words too," I reply. "Glad you've kept all the good parts of yourself. Cause this girl only dances with people like you."

I feel like I'm going to explode from all of the nerves running haywire through me. I thought that waiting or fearing rejection was going to be the peak of my nerves, but now that I'm just bursting forth everything I've always wanted to say to you from the minute I realized I fell way too far in love with you to just swim out and dry off like nothing ever happened. Thankfully, despite your best attempts to play the straight man to all of this, you're buzzing with more internal activity than an orgy in a beehive.

"I did this for you," you admit.

Alarmed, I reply, "I hope you didn't do this…" I run my hand across your chest, detailing an entirely different beast than before. "Because you think I'd like it better."

"Oh. Gods no," you correct. "I didn't don these clothes to make you happy. I pulled the trigger because you gave me the courage. I didn't want to let you down."

Your honesty makes you feel more real than anything I've ever felt in my life. Like, I'm still not sure how much the fantasy/reality scales tip at any given moment, but I'm really hoping it's in the majority for reality, because if I wake up from a dream right now it's really going to fuck me up. "Even if you decided it wasn't right to change," I assure you, "You wouldn't be letting me down. It's the decision that counts. Finality and shit."

"Nothing is ever final," you tell me. "There's not enough structure for that."

"Then at least you've planted some firm roots."

I finally shatter what's left of the ambiguity and kiss you briefly on your neck hard enough to leave lipstick stains deeper than a tattoo. "Besides," I tell you. "I'm flexible. I'm down for you no matter what case you come in."

You pull away, and I wonder if I stepped on a landmine in my attempts to verbally clear the distance between us. Thankfully, you're still within arm's reach so I keep my apologies on my tongue.

You look me in the eye and ask me, "I've been meaning to ask you this for ages, but I don't suppose I could trouble you for a dance, madame?"

"So formal," I tease you. "How could I say no to such a strong, dashing gentleman?"

You lean down to kiss me. I catch you halfway. Yeah, the dance can wait. In the back of my mind my senses haven't been completely blown yet so I know we're halfway through a song. It doesn't matter. The songs aren't all that good anyway. I'm more than happy to kill some time with you on trivial matters. Let's not rush through it all at once.

You're no expert at kissing, but I'm entirely driven on instinct, so who knows if I am either. I might play the part but I am surprisingly quite the loner, for too long someone who dreamed more than did. It's nice to be in the real world for much, even if your nose bumps into mine too much and you aren't entirely sure how to move. It's okay. You can't expect to do everything all at once. You're a hell of a fighter, Sheik, but your body is no longer a weapon, and you are no longer an art piece. I hope the fire that escapes my throat enters your mouth and burns that porcelain shell at long last. A body's nothing without life, after all.

We finally stop just as the song ends. I figure we may as well do some actual dancing. I keep my ears perked for the song. Please be something good. Maybe it's a little too attuned to what's left of my teenage years to desire the perfect song for a first dance, but I can't help it. I keep listening. Thankfully the waltzes are down, and there's a little more normal music. Guitar-driven, somewhat romantic, not entirely sure of. It seems epic, so I figure what the hell. If I wait for the most beautiful song in the world, we'll be making out on the sidelines all night long. Not objectionable, but not a proper seizing of the day.

"You good for a dance?"

"Ready as ever."

I know there'll be lots of stumbling, a little awkwardness, and that the dance will end in a few hours, and the sun will rise tomorrow, whether it's through the same window or two separate ones. I mean, I like the fantasy world but I'm a realist. You can't shatter something without the others noticing, and lord knows there are too many nosy people for this world. Change is what keeps the world fresh, and we'll make sure everyone knows that when we go off the edge, there's no falling back up.

For now, I'm not going to sweat it. I've earned this dance, and so have you. Let's live it the fuck up.

Yeah so if I didn't beat you over the head enough with the implications (I've been told I'm shit with making things clear enough) the character of Sheik is basically Zelda after a permanent gender transition to Sheik. Ereka Phosphora is simply a lot of fun to write. Probably a little more mature and less biting than I'd heard she was in the game in my piece, but I think I captured a relatively on-point version of her. So whatevs.

Hope this piece was successful at capturing my former glory with a new perspective, and thanks for your continued baffling amount of readership. And of course, happy birthday and/or post-Valentines-day aftermath.

~MoD

P.S. The two songs on loop the most were Where The Streets Have No Name by U2 and The Edge of Glory by Lady Gaga. So I decided to go with The Edge for a happy medium.