Note: Drum roll please! I'm new to the Hairspray fandom – or should I say, the Musicals/Plays fandom, really. For those of you who don't know me, I've written High School Musical and Hannah Montana so far. So check out the rest of my work on my profile if you're interested. ;) I'm also trying something new – second person. Usually, I prefer third, but second seemed to work best for this particular fanfiction. Don't forget to make me happy and review. Enjoy!

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fall to pieces

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It is easiest to just presume that the smile is genuine.

And most people do exactly that ...they just assume, because they either don't care enough to make an effort to discover the truth or they really can't tell that you, an utterly gorgeous, talented, blonde seventeen year old girl aren't as content as you often appear to be.

You won't let it show. Though you've lost the contest, your boyfriend, your pride, your dignity – though you've lost everything – you continue to feign indifference. You keep your smirk in position and make sure your hair is faultless, with every hair secure in its place. You smooth out the wrinkles in your trendy, ultra stylish dress, hit all the right notes when you belt out a song, and dance each step correctly. And most importantly, you make sure that no one can tell that your heart is broken. To everyone else in Baltimore, you are still confident, beautiful, and enviable.

You reach up to daintily pat your carefully arranged bun, verifying that not even a single stray hair has fallen out and devastated the refined picture of flawless sophistication and precision that you have created. All around you, celebrations and festivities are clearly underway. You scowl, patting your hair once more just in case. When you find no blemish, you withdraw your hand and fold both of your arms across your chest. You have no desire to be there, but your mother insisted that you attend.

Appearance is more important than your own yearnings, Amber.

You direct your gaze at the other end of the room, where an overweight but somehow still glowing teenager is standing, surrounded by people. How can she be so darn happy? She is so plump she can practically be mistaken for a small island, her taste in clothes is unattractively appalling, and she isn't even the slightest bit pretty. So why is Tracy Turnblad having the time of her life when you aren't? Your powder blue eyes sting fiercely, against your will. It isn't fair, you decide, and you instinctively pat your bun a third time. It isn't fair at all.

You feel a pair of eyes burning into your back, and it irritates you soundly. You turn around, and delicate powder blue unwillingly meets cobalt. You frown, and when the boy who stole your heart from you approaches, your frown only deepens. You want to slap him, to scream at him, to hurt him – but you do nothing but watch him draw near with reproach and disdain in your expression.

"Hi Amber," he says lightly, as if he had never broken your heart and left you to crumble alone in the dust.

You don't respond with words, but you accuse him silently.

How could you?

The words hang between you both, heavy and demanding. You feel humiliated, because he chose the ugly, obese whore over you and you've got no one and nothing left. You curse inwardly, but your smirk remains stationary – it's all you have left, isn't it?

He stubbornly keeps his eyes on your face, trying, you assume, to read every emotion. "I'm sorry," he tells you quietly, and your heart almost breaks all over again, if that's even possible. "I didn't mean to, Amber. I really didn't."

Like it matters, you want to choke out. Like it even makes a difference. But you roll your eyes, acting nonchalant, and you pretend to be bored with the conversation already as you focus your eyes on two girls who are chatting animatedly nearby.

"I'm happy now," he continues, and you are sorely tempted to stomp on his foot until he can never dance again. "I wish you could be happy too. You might not believe me. But I want you to be as happy as I am."

And to your horror, your eyes sting with tears again, and you move away hurriedly, faster than you ever shook your hips. "I have to go," you manage, and then you're dashing away, away from that heartbreakingly perfect boy, away from that ideal party scene, away from everything you're used to. And you find yourself alone in a bathroom, crying your eyes out with your cute new dress wrinkled and strands of hair escaping from your chignon, in the very situation that you would have guessed that Tracy Turnblad would be in not too long ago, when she first showed up at the auditions.

You don't know whether it's five minutes or an hour, but just as your racking sobs start to quiet down, a strong pair of arms wraps themselves around you and lifts you up gently. You're embarrassed and angry that he's found you, but you let him lead you out of the bathroom and into an empty studio. In the distance, you can still hear noises from the party, and even what you're convinced is Tracy's loud and obnoxious laugh.

You don't look at him, because you don't know what to say and you don't want to be around him anymore, but as you stand up to leave, he stops you. "We've got some things to talk about," he murmurs. "Don't go Amber."

And you inaudibly curse your weak resolve as you sit down again and pout, frustrated that you can't even walk away from the stupid jerk who ruthlessly dumped you for the fat chick in town.

"Why don't you talk about them with Jupiter?" you snap coldly, and he winces.

"Jupiter?" he echoes. "That isn't very nice of you."

"Because you're really one to preach about nice, aren't you Link?"

And he sighs, almost like he's the damaged one, and for a split second you almost want to take the last minute back. You wish that everything would go back to the way it was, when you were obviously a shoo-in for Miss Teenage Hairspray and you were the girl on his arm.

"I told you I was sorry, Amber. And I am. But you can't control –"

"–who you fall in love with," you interrupt, and your voice cracks, just the slightest bit.

"Yeah," he agrees, surprise etched all over his face. "How did you know what I was going to say?"

You look away. "It's what I told my mother when she asked if I would ever risk my entire career ...for you."

He's not stupid enough to inquire about her response. "I want you to be happy, too," he says instead. "You could never be happy with me."

"Don't pretend that this was about my personal wellbeing." Your eyes snap back to his, irate. "You wanted your fat ass whore, so don't pretend otherwise."

"Amber."

"What did you think?" you retort angrily. "That I would be happy for you, Link? That I would offer to buy you a wedding ring?" He remains silent throughout your rant, and guilt nudges at you again. You really hate yourself sometimes, but you hate Tracy Turnblad more. "You were all I had left. I don't have anything now."

He doesn't speak for a while, but when he opens his mouth, something completely unexpected tumbles out. "Don't hate me Amber," he whispers. "Don't hate me." And then, slowly, cautiously, he extends a hand toward your face, finally placing it on your cheek tenderly. "If I could make you happy, I would," he says softly, in an undertone. "But I can't. You know I can't."

You nod slowly, even though you're not even sure what you truly want, and he gathers you in his arms, holding you again as tears slide down your cheeks. And although you know it's not the same, although you know it will never be the same again and you've already lost what you previously had, you revel in the fact that he is holding you for now. Because just for this moment, you just need someone to help you fall.

The first time is always the hardest.

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