Just a little Blair drabble that just came out after months upon horrendous months of writer's block (a history paper on Michelangelo finally broke the spell, go figure...)
Takes place just after/before the Pilot.
Sometimes, on a night devoid of assignments or hostess requirements, she looks at the world through her tiny apartment window (Central Park is world enough) and notes (and names) all of the stars of the sky and she realizes the horribleness of it all.
That's why sometimes, when she's alone, void of the passion that drives the fake smiles behind her everyday façade (Hello sir, how are you? My father went to Yale!), she closes her door and cries because the muffled sobs sound much more beautiful than any speech she could ever articulate to those close to her (perhaps even better than wretching into a porcelain sink, but she wouldn't dare admit that, even in thought).
While the liquid seeps out of the pores of her being, everything that is horrible in her life comes crashing down upon her (that's the funny thing about tears, they bring everything floating to the surface); she thinks about her family—rather, lack of—and how it is void of the structure, the perfection that it's supposed to have. Her father is not supposed to be in France with his lover (male lover). Her mother is not supposed to spend her days wilting away in her now-larger 4-post queen bed (she is supposed to criticize and pick at and peck at and make Blair feel her familiar insecure).
She thinks about how uncertain she is of her future (Yale, Nate, perfection, repeat); does she really want to study law? Does she really want to spend a quarter of her life on such blasé studies (does she really want to put so much effort into her every assignment until she is 26?)? Does she even really love Nate (since the return of the blonde she-goddess)? She's not supposed to be uncertain—that's Serena's job—but, somehow (after her world comes crashing down) she is.
She thinks of how, when she looks into the mirror, she somehow can't again see miles of long legs and blonde hair—quite the opposite. Why is it that she can't touch her stomach without repulsively pinching the fat and being repulsed once again? Why is it that her hair isn't magical and goddess-like and beautiful and golden? (Why is it that she isn't magical and goddess-like and beautiful and golden? Who decided that she got to be the frog of the fairytale?) Why is it that, although everything is the same as before, everything has changed (for the worse)?
She thinks about the impact of time and change. How could time change everything in an instant? How could she be queen one day and merely the uninformed extra the next? How everything could simply change, she does not understand. Not a bit.
When her sobbing eases up, she forces herself to look back at the window. The stars have changed again(as they are supposed to), but she now remains the same as she did only a few hours ago (sporting her previous hostess-ing Marc Jacobs dress with pink Lanvin flats and light cream toenails). And that tear that lands on her beige carpet is the last for the night.