Disclaimer: I do not own fairytales
A/N: Based on a dream I had... it means a lot to me, so pleae review. Flame if you want, I don't mind.
I look around. My long flowing dress trails behind me, as I move gracefully around the room. I am looking for someone… my latest pursuit. The rustlings of ball gowns fill the room. Everywhere I look I see expressions of pretentious delight, and sounds of affected laughter. I wince. I cannot see him – my latest escort, my latest muse.
And then I see you.
What are you doing here? You look so uncomfortable, so out-of-place, so awkward, in this artificial atmosphere. A lady leans over to speak to you. Her curls brush the side of your face, and she giggles. I shudder, and look away. Trying to cast all thoughts of you away, I turn and glide, trying to find him. The chattering crowds are drawing away, clearing the dance floor. I am left in the centre of the floor, without a partner. A man walks up to me, and requests a dance with me. I smile and nod.
I spin and whirl, with passion, without life. That's what this is all about. It's all so fake, so pretentious… yet we all flock back year after year. Why is that? The dance finishes, and I curtsey to my partner, and he bows in return. I turn away and walk off the dance floor. I am so relieved to be away from the spotlight.
I see my friends. They compliment me on my clothes, my hair, my dancing. The same compliments, murmured in tones of reverent awe year after year. Another man asks me to dance, but I decline. I am waiting for him.
I look around yet again, and your presence catches my eye once more. You turn and brush women aside, with no regard for the manners and etiquette that we have all come to regard with near reverence. Yet these women buzz around you like flies. I cannot blame them. Even after all these years, you look better than ever. Someone speaks to me, and I do not hear them. I am too busy watching your form, watching you spin these women across the floor. Your eyes register boredom – or am I just imagining it because I want to? I do not know.
You catch my eye, and I jerk away, as if stung. I brush away ejaculations of concern. Why should the mere sight of you disturb me so? It has been more than a year, more than two, more than five. Why have you returned from my past to plague me once more?
It is not your fault. You were honest, but I never was. You never knew what I thought of you. I was a good liar, even back then. You were blunt, and you told the truth – just not to me. What would it have been like if you had told me? Different, I hope. But I don't know. I didn't know how I felt until it was too late. And I wouldn't say it. I couldn't say it. Would I say it now?
I don't know. I really don't know.
You make your way closer over to me. My friends snicker, and nudge me. I am past the blushing stage. You ask for a dance. I look around. I still cannot see him. I look around, uncertain. My friends giggle. I close my eyes, hating the sound. You seize my arms, and lead me onto the floor.
I do not protest.
The music starts, and we step in time. This feels so different. Everyone's eyes are on us. You dance from the heart. I have no choice but to follow. This dance is real, warm, alive. I close my eyes, and will it to last forever.
It stops.
Of course it stops. What was I expecting? Everyone applauds wildly. Even their applause sounds so real, so vivid. I don't look at you. I cannot.
I walk off the dance floor with you, and turn away. It is too late. I look up and see an old acquaintance beaming at me. I exchange pleasantries.
It is too late for you.
It is too late for us.
Our fairytale could never come true.
