Mirrorball

Notes: I've been wanting to write this story for a while now, and I'm excited to finally share it with you guys. This story is an attempt at providing a more fleshed-out take on what happened during and after the identity switch drama and is based on the canon events that are told in season one. There will be lots of angst, both familial and romantic, but also moments of self-discovery, friendship, romance, and more.

This first chapter is a little on the shorter end, but the future chapters should get longer.

All I do is try, try, try
I'm still on that trapeze
I'm still trying everything

"mirrorball" by Taylor Swift

One

Stella might know how to pack a punch and expertly twirl her scepter in the air, but she's not all solid steel and bold bravado.

Not really, not entirely.

Not according to her grandmother.

When she was fifteen, her grandmother told her that she had soft spots in her heart. The young princess had flatly denied being soft at all in response. Difficult, outspoken, stubborn, brash, she's heard time after time. Never soft. Her grandmother had only laughed, told her that everyone's got a soft heart until they don't, that while she may not have been soft all the way through, it was the core that counted—the core that hadn't yet hardened.

Her affection for love stories and happily-ever-afters, she supposes, is one of her soft spots.

It's almost embarrassing how much she still loves immersing herself in stories about happy endings and opening lines starting with a once upon a time. The way she adores the definite love stories of ages to come and loves the sparkling tiaras and shimmering dresses made out of finest silks and softest satins. Her grandmother had once said that fairytales are nothing more than works of fiction we like to believe in to convince ourselves that the narrative of our lives has a happy ending. That daydreaming about beautiful princesses and handsome knights in shining armor is pure wish-fulfillment.

Stella knows there's merit to the words. She really does, but at the same time, she likes to imagine herself in a picturesque wonderland where she's the starring character with a picture-perfect life because it gives her a sense of hope.

And she is convinced that if she can look the part, then maybe, just maybe, she can act the part, too.

Looking at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she picks up her lip soufflé and pulls out the brush applicator. Tilts her chin, puckers her lips, and applies a coat of orange to her lips. It's a stunning coral shade, one she has perfected over the years. Not too bold, not too bland. It's chic and classic, and it's her. There's a quiet confidence in what she does, an effortless touch to every press and pivot of the applicator, and she hums in satisfaction, swiping one last layer of lipstick across her lips.

Finished with her handiwork, she caps the tube with a satisfying snap and returns it to her cosmetic bag. Lips freshly painted, she draws her attention back to her reflection and brings a hand to her face, using the flawlessly manicured nail of her index finger to pat at the excess lipstick on her bottom lip.

She smiles at herself through the mirror.

Nothing is out of place with her.

(Nothing that anyone can weigh in on.)

Her sigh is nothing short of dramatic.

She twirls her glitter-ink ballpoint pen between her index and middle finger, chin propped up in the heel of her palm. Nothing helps her focus. She has missed most of the lecture, and she couldn't care less to follow through with the rest. Not that she has ever enjoyed the potionology class, to be clear, but she knows she ought to step up. She's falling behind on her schoolwork, and she can't afford to flunk this class. That, and she knows the consequences of bringing home a bad report card.

Last year, when she had blown the potions laboratory, her parents had taken to arguing which one was to blame for her latest debacle. To this day, she remembers the harsh, hushed tones, the broken china plates and the bits of tagliolini pasta scattered all across the tiled floors. The cutting remarks that were to persuade her to side with one parent and reject the other, but only succeeded in tearing her heart apart. ("Your father should've kept a better eye on you," her mother had said. "Your mother failed at educating you," her father had said.) By the time her father had written a lengthy apology letter to the school board, in addition to paying a hefty sum to cover all the damages to get her re-admitted, her parents had officially announced they were getting a divorce.

Her fingers curl around the pen, gripping it tight in her grasp. The memory still stings like saltwater to an open wound.

The thing is, she can't give her parents another reason to argue, to drift apart.

In fact, out of fear they'd start arguing again, she never bothered to tell them what had prompted the potions lab incident in the first place. Not even the school knows. Her classmates and teachers are under the impression that she wanted to create a new shade of pink, a cover-up story to hide the actual truth. It's laughable, she thinks, how readily people had accepted the lousy excuse as the truth. Not that she can blame them. Her track record isn't the greatest, and she's stopped correcting anyone for assuming the worst of her. It's why she hasn't told anyone the truth about what had led to the incident, such as it was, actually, except him.

Prince Sky.

He had made it so easy, so safe, for her to open up. Never judged her once, never make her feel less. Let her take her time, held her hand. His concern and compassion had taken her by surprise at first, though her shock should not have been that great. Being at ease around him had never been an issue. Plus, he's nothing like the kind of guys she has dated in the past. He is kind, he is sweet, and he is gorgeous beyond words. He makes her laugh, treats her like a princess, and she feels like she can be herself around him.

Lost in her thoughts, she startles when the shrill sound of the school bell snaps her out of them.

"That's all for today, ladies," announces Palladium, his voice barely audible over the screeching drag of chair legs and chatter around the classroom. "Please remember to revise the lab manual handout we completed in class today and make sure to review the different types of metamorphosis antidotes. I'll see you next Wednesday."

Looking down at her empty exercise book, as though coming back to herself from elsewhere, she breathes out a heavy sigh and begins to pack her study materials.

It's all romance and red roses until it isn't.

He never sees her reaction, but words spread fast and hearts break faster. He's tried calling and texting her multiple times over the past week, no doubt trying to justify his shitty, selfish decisions, but she's diligently ignored every attempt of his to contact her.

She avoids him more for her own sake than his, though, because she's not quite sure how to put to words the feelings caused by the events of the exhibition. There's obviously hurt and rage from being lied to, but there's also a strange undercurrent of embarrassment and disappointment in herself for not suspecting a thing, for not catching a single red flag. It almost feels like a sucker punch to the gut, the same way it had felt when her parents had publicly announced they were getting a divorce without giving her a heads-up.

But the aftertaste of hurt is different this time. It's fresh and new. It's like every look, every laugh, every touch, is etched into her mind, each like the memory of a puncture wound. Like a slow, sad song stuck on repeat.

She vividly remembers the back seat of his wind rider, and the scarlet red rose, the boyish glint in his warm brown eyes, and the late summer nights. The day he'd asked her to be his girlfriend, and the night they'd first made love. How he'd made her feel, and how she'd lowered her guard, brick by brick, because he was the first person that had made her feel seen in a very long time.

Now she wonders if any of it was even real.

But rather than dwell on the unknown, she shuffles into a pair of fluffy slippers, stands up off the bed, and crosses the bedroom floor to her vanity table.

She's in the middle of settling herself more comfortably into the armchair, tucking the front pieces of her hair behind her ears, and gathering her hair up into a ponytail when she freezes at the sight in front of her. Two envelopes. Neatly placed, one top of the other, on the table. She frowns. It's not often she gets any letters from anyone.

Letting her hair cascade down her back, she picks up the first envelope. Turns it over, recognizing the sender immediately. It's hard not to when her given name is scripted across the front in delicate penmanship she's spent years admiring and trying to emulate. She just doesn't know why her mother of all people would send her a letter.

Her thumb traces the seam of the envelope flap, with something like anxiety at the thought of what she might find inside. It can't be anything good because it never is. Her parents tend to only contact her when she's in trouble. With that thought in mind, she sets the envelope aside.

Her breath snags in her chest when she catches the sight of the second envelope, its top-left corner embossed with a lacquered logo of the school's mascot she knows all too well. Too damn well. Her breathing has gone shallow now, and for a long moment, she does nothing at all but sits still, staring at the front of the envelope. A second, two, passes. Her hand reaches, retracts, and she hates how pathetic it makes her feel. How badly she wants to forgive and forget.

But she shakes the idea from her head as fast as it had come, regaining her senses, and tucks both of the envelopes into the bottom drawer, leaving them unopened.

It's upon stepping outside the coffee shop, with a freshly purchased strawberry cream donut and an iced caramel latte in hand, that makes her muscles seize up.

Brandon doesn't notice her at first, busy pocketing his set of keys and wallet, but then he lifts his gaze and stops in his tracks when he sees her. Their eyes meet for the first time in weeks. He is dressed in dark jeans and a pale blue polo shirt with its top buttons undone, a look that shouldn't make her pause anymore, but it does. It always does. Her chest tightens with an ache that anchors itself deep in her heart, and she clutches at her cold to-go cup tighter.

"Stella."

Stella isn't sure why she clams up, or why her stomach squirms at hearing his voice. It's not supposed to. But she doesn't stop to mull over it, impatient to leave, and instead hitches her tote bag higher on her shoulder, sidestepping him to re-establish the distance she's kept from him since the day she learned about his true identity.

"Stel—wait," he rushes to say, but she refuses to engage with him.

She only manages to take a few steps down the street, turning the corner, before he catches up with her, grabbing her forearm. She flinches, yanking away.

"Please," he pleads. "I just want to talk to you for a minute."

"I'm not interested."

He breathes sharply, "Stel—"

"I mean it," and the razor-sharp note in her voice confirms it. "I don't want to hear it."

Turning away, she picks up her pace again and carries on walking briskly. For a brief moment, she thinks he's given up following her, only to realize a moment later he's changed tactics and fallen into step beside her. Irritation flushes her cheeks even as the morning chill nips at her skin.

"It's really not what you think it is," he says, undeterred, keeping up with her angry strides with ease that makes her grit her teeth.

"'Course it isn't," she scoffs, sarcastic.

Either he doesn't hear the edge to her voice or decides to deliberatively ignore it.

"Listen, I know you're mad at me. I know I messed up big time. But I swear I never meant to hurt you. There's a lot more to the tabloid stories and rumors. I can explain everything, okay?" he barrels on, ardently. "You've got to understand—"

At that, she stops.

"No. I don't." Her response is as cold as it is clear in its firmness. No longer able to ignore him, she whirls around to face him. He straightens a little when he catches the glower on her face. "Two years. You had two years to come clean."

He has the decency to look remorseful before he drags his gaze down, hands in his pockets. "I know."

Traffic buzzes around them, but she can't hear anything else but the steady thrumming of her heartbeat. There's a lot she wants to say, to do, but she stays rooted to her spot, words stuck in her parched throat. She swallows. Lets the silence permeate the air, waiting for him to follow up. But the damage is already done, she reminds herself, and she doesn't care—or rather, want—to know what he has to say, just wants to hurt him the way he had hurt her because hurting is all she has.

She means to exactly tell him that, means to tell him what's done is done; that she is done. That she doesn't know how to forgive him for what he has done, not for a lie of that magnitude. She means to, but she doesn't.

"Was it worth it?"

It's not a question she means to ask, but it's out there before she can take it back.

His gaze darts up to meet hers. "What?"

"Was it worth it?" she asks, annoyed at having to repeat herself. "You know, the lying, the scheming—"

"It wasn't like that," he says at once, interrupting. "I never intended to—"

"Oh, spare me the bullshit."

A cough comes from somewhere to her left. It's only then that she notices they have stopped at a traffic light where some passers-by have craned their necks to give them curious glances. She ignores them. She doesn't even acknowledge them.

There's a twitch to his jaw, like he wants to say something, but she continues, unwilling to wait for him to speak up.

"You know," she starts, surprising herself at her leveled tone. Her thumb hooks under the bag strap, sliding up its length to her shoulder blade, and she secures it more firmly on her shoulder, ready to leave. "I don't know what game you're playing, but I'm not falling for it this time. The truth is, you lied to me all these years, and I don't want any part in your pity party now that your cover's blown. That means I don't want you to call me or text me because I don't care what you have to say. Is that clear?"

Brandon says nothing.

"Great," she says with false cheer, turning away from him.

The traffic signal blinks to green, and she crosses the street without a backward glance.