Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with Gaston Leroux, ALW or the Really Useful Group. Please don't sue me.

Author's Note: My only excuse for this really short and angsty 'story' is that I'm bored, and thought some Meg-angst would be fun.


You saw her only when you looked for her. Looked hard.

A glint of gold hair. The fluttering of a ribbon. A pale reflection in the window. Alone in the dark, you'd feel a chill knifing up your spine and you'd look around for her. Or at least for the ghost of her, the frail silhouette amongst shadows, watching you. At once romantic and eerie and insubstantial. Like old rose petals crumbling to powder. Blown away on a breeze.

She was like the buttons on your dress that always came undone, the fruit that fell from the tree too early, when no one thought to look. She was the balloon that floated away and was lost and came down again, sadly, limply. She was moonbeams and fast-fading rainbows and the faintest rays of the smallest stars. Not really the prettiest or the most beloved, not really the best dancer or the best friend. Not really there at all. She was only a cloud of almosts and not quites and second bests, sad dreams and longing that was just a little too easy to miss. A pale reflection in the window.

You saw her only when you looked for her. Sometimes you thought it was only because you wanted, needed, to see her so badly, caught up in regret that you never really saw her before. You looked, looked hard, and saw pastel-coloured ribbons whipping out of sight round every corner, and heard the sighs you never noticed until now. Almost.

She was almost everything and she was nothing.

She was almost here, but she was irrevocably gone.


Author's Note: Even I'm not really sure about this, but I guess this story is set after the events of the musical. Meg is...hmm...missing or dead, take your pick, and an old friend is thinking about her.

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