Alright, here's the thing. Comcast comes in and installs our new internet. Shortly thereafter, all of my computers crash. All three of them. Skipping some parts So my step-dad manages to get all of our documents onto another source and now, I can finally put this up. I wrote it a few months ago. Oh, and if any of you are familiar with Titanic: a Musical, there's a slight reference to Lady's Maid. :)
Disclaimer: I don't own Kingdom Hearts. I do, however, own a Roxas action figure. (Cuddles)
The clock strikes one and a gust of wind blows your blonde hair into your eyes. Sighing, you swipe it away. The warm summer air caresses your skin as you watch your legs dangle over the steep edge of the balcony. You fidget a bit, making sure your ass is firmly planted. A tinkle of laughter reaches your ears and your eyes dart frantically to find its origin. Not too far off to your right, Roxas and Olette walk into the garden in the center of the decorative maze. You lay your arms on the ice cold banister and rest your head, squinting at their figures. They're flirting, you can tell. Oh, God, you can tell. You notice the way she plays with her hair and how he just laughs when she hits him playfully.
And you painfully take note how unlike you she is. She's pretty, perfect, fun, happy. You're plain and dull and uncontrollably idiotic around him. You hit your head against your arms repeatedly as her sweet laughter makes you feel more worthless than you already feel.
Fighting back the urge to scream, you lower your arms and clench your fists around the silver skirt of the ball gown that you took such care in selecting. You didn't even want to come to the stupid masquerade anyway. You came for him. You let your mother, ecstatic that she could spend quality time with her brooding daughter, drag you from store to store, searching for the perfect dress. You feel so uncomfortable now in your dress: a white, silky ribbon connecting a strapless, white top to a silver, artfully crinkled skirt. Getting ready, you felt like a princess. Maybe he would talk to you tonight, complimenting you on your dress and saying, "It's been a while, eh, Naminé?" And you'd nod and giggle a thanks, blushing behind your feathered mask, and tell him that he looks handsome in his tux. You'd make normal conversation and he'd finally realize, yeah, you can be cool. The two of you would walk out onto the balcony and he'd take your hand. You would both be in love.
Idle daydreams are so misleading.
He walked in directly behind you and, though he would sometimes talk to you, he ignored you and spent the night with her.
If looks could kill, she'd be long dead.
She's just so perfect. Tonight, her dark blue dress goes just right with her color of her skin. She always says the right thing and she's not afraid to go up and start a conversation, damnit. You're foolish to think he would even look at you when the kind-hearted brunette spoke to him so often.
She walks around the fountain, trailing her fingers along its rim and making casual conversation. You can't even hate her, you realize angrily and slam your fist against the balcony's hard, stone railing. You barely feel the pain shoot through your palm. She's such a good person (or so it seems), that you just have to like her.
A growl escapes your throat and you rip your eyes away from her to look at him. Sighing, you take in his features. Lord, he's gorgeous. And he makes you laugh when he actually talks to you. If only you didn't suck at talking to people. Your head's in the clouds, and in your mind, you aren't afraid to say anything. But you don't have that courage in the real world. You take a deep breath. Just thinking about this horrendous flaw of yours makes your hands itch for something to throw. Instead, you settle for clenching your fists, polished nails destroying the even skin of your palm.
He holds her hands in his. You miserably find yourself considering them as a couple. He's slightly taller and his gravity-defying hair flawlessly contrasts her brown tresses. He leans in, ever so slightly, and your heart falls into your stomach. There's an awkward pause between them and he kisses her. Your jaw drops; his arms wrap around her waist and her hands find his neck. Reality slaps you in the face:
He wants her. Not you. None of your dreaming or your hoping or your scheming or your praying or your wishing can change that simple fact.
And all of a sudden, you feel hopeless and worthless.
You don't know what to do. For the longest time, you've been consumed by this longing for him. You knew you liked him, but not to the extent of the anguish you're feeling now. You finally realize that it's time to move on.
But it all feels so pointless.
You take in the scene playing out in front of you and your cool, collected demeanor shatters. Icy hot tears drip down your cheeks, showering your dress. You lay your head in your arms and sob. The summer breeze blows softly and contorts the mess that was once perfectly in place.
After a while, tears stop coming and dry sobs cease. Opening your eyes, you note a small pile of petals lying next to you that you're sure weren't there before. Sniffling, you lift your head and pick them up. The light pink rose petals were soft between your fingers. A gust of wind picks up your hair and, lifting your arms, you let the petals go, watching with the ghost of a smile as they danced out of sight.
You feel a spark of hope tug at your heartstrings.
You feel your shoe slipping slightly off of your heel, but you don't really care. Worst come to worst, it could survive the fall.
Just like you.