Disclaimer: Alas, I don't own a thing.

You can be at certain parties and not really be there.

She isn't really there. Her hard smile is the sign of tragedy swathed in Chanel no. 5 and red satin bows, and every time her eyes flit to the mirror it's because it holds the promise of checkered scarves and pastel bowties.

(She will ring in the New Year with broken mirrors and broken promises, seven years of bad luck be damned.)

He really isn't there. He doesn't have to pretend to smile in Bangkok, and girls who cost too much always look best when he has drunk too much. He doesn't look in the mirror, because he's not sure he believes that there's anything left to see when he closes his eyes.

(He will forget about the New Year altogether until his phone rings at 12:03 a.m., Bangkok time. One more missed message, one more broken promise, and one more time that he created his own bad luck.)

However many miles away, she is staring at what he is avoiding when a flash of color catches her eye. It isn't him, it never is, and her smile gets just a bit harder. The woman she's talking to will take a sip of her martini and make a hasty exit, titters of gossip will fill dark corners and hide her sobs. And then it will come: the invisible moment when everyone decides that it's time to offer their sincerely insincere gratitude, edging towards the door, trying to discard an empty champagne flute with one hand while shoving the other into the sleeve of a coat. The partygoers will file out one by one, handkerchiefs waving and false smiles singing their relief, and then all that's left will be an empty room and the sounds of voices receding down the corridor. Dorota is left with the remnants of wine stains on carpets and cigarette butts shoved into the cracks of windowsills, and Blair will go upstairs, where she will strip off her party dress, remove a headband from a mass of brown curls, and unroll her Wolford stockings one leg at a time.

Happy New Year, Blair.

(He doesn't press send.)