disclaimer The shamelessness is mine. Everything else belongs to Baz. /disclaimer

Warnings about this sort of thing fly thick and fast, especially here: love makes you hollow, love does not pay, never fall in love. And I understand them now. But we were so young then, and so carefree. Nothing could go wrong as long as we had each other. Together, we were invincible; this sort of thing could never touch us. I never imagined you would turn away. ­

I remember the pure red of your hair, not hennaed like so many of the others', but true as a sunburst. I remember carding my hands through it, how it felt as rich as damask, softer than silks. I remember how your fingers, slim and smooth, seemed so incongruous when they twined in my own hair, and how you never seemed to mind that it was so much shorter and darker and plainer than yours. I remember long hours spent laughing like schoolchildren in the dingy garret, happy to simply be together. I remember hardly daring believe how fortunate I was, and how amazed I was that you felt the same way. I remember bright sapphire eyes that unabashedly laughed and cried up until the day a frost fell over them. And I remember I knew then that you had stopped loving me, that you had chosen fame over friendship, luxury over love.

You left then, head high, delicate chin piercing the air, hair swinging like a mocking banner as you walked out the door, not caring in the least that you left me with a veil of red over my eyes, counterpart to the frozen film that glints over yours.

And I will be there to see you smile and sing and play your part, every eye in the room on you, just like you always wanted, your hair bathed in bluish-white light, as cold as the rest of you, and I will try not to remember how things once were. But I see the diamonds flowing through your icy, too-thin fingers and I know that you are not happy.

I should find that knowledge satisfying. It's what you deserve, after all. And, if I could, I probably would feel triumphant. But somewhere deep in my heart, or what's left of it, I know I never will. I knew you too well to condemn what you have become. At times, I almost pity you for hollowing yourself. You may have found that artificial love keeps you alive, but tell me, is it worth it? Are all the riches and successes in the world worth turning into a pillar of ice? I know you thought so, before you had them. Now, I wonder if you ever wish you had stayed with me. The two of us would never have been as wealthy as you became on your own, nor would we have accumulated so much favor in such a short time. But we would have been together. I like to think that would have mattered to you.

And then my mind flies back to the words you spoke that evening, as you plucked my hand from your shoulder: "­Love may be everything they say it is, but it really isn't worth anything unless it pays." And when I tried to pull you back into the room, you shook me off. "This can't go on. Dear God, Nini, try to be sensible for once."

Maybe you were right. For all I know, living for yourself and yourself alone really is the most sensible path to take. But as I see you smiling as if it would break your face and your hair shimmering desperately through its encasing diamond snood, I can only laugh sharply. Sensibility be damned; there are better things in this world. And to think, you threw them all away to be happy and prosperous.

One out of two isn't bad, is it? You tell me.