Your name is Dave Strider, you are thirty years old, and you are wearing thin.

You suppose it isn't for the reasons you thought you would - it isn't because John and Molly have been nuzzling noses and dancing with their fingers, it isn't because as you walk the paved streets of the theme park they are holding hands and wearing matching mouse hats, and it isn't because they laugh so harmoniously as they ride on Splash Mountain. You admit all those things and more hurt you, they stab at your heart like needles in a pin cushion, but that isn't it.

It's the things that make you happy that really hurt.

It's holding Casey in your lap on the double-decker bus, it's gasping with her as her eyes are wide in the Haunted Mansion, it's sharing a themed meal with them all, it's laughing uproariously with John after you pranked the girls. It's John's chuckling as you fight with an employee that you'll be damned if you're taking your shades off for this ride - it's freaking the fuck out when they almost fall off on said ride. It's the nights returning home and having John and Molly make dinner together while you play dolls with Casey. It's the moments when you smile, and feel like you shouldn't be smiling at all.

And you're trying to come to terms with the fact that this is just how it is, and just how it's going to be. You're wondering why it's so hard, when this is the way it's always been and you've always planned it. Maybe you just got too lustful with your aspirations, and your fingers were just inches from what you'd so longed for - so now it's like you were starving, food in your mouth, and you were forced to spit it all out and stare at it. You feel empty and rubbed raw.

But then there are also times that make it so you can forget. Like when John and you are the only ones not too chicken/short to go on the big coasters, and when you make sure he gets wet as fucking possible ("Fuck you, Dave!" "Calm down, I just wanted to cool you o— hey where did you get that Mickey Mouse water bottle.") and when you bash shoulders with each other jokingly. He makes you smile so big, and sometimes during these moments you forget that you don't need to be upset about anything. Because it's just you and John, and there's no bittersweet quality to it - not then at least.

You feel like this is all playing out like some movie cliche - your life a script that if you wrote it out, you're sure you'd make millions on. But you're still trying to figure out why it has to be a tragedy, or at best, a love story where the guy never gets the girl. Sort of like Titanic where Rose actually stayed with Cal. When your mind starts thinking of this though, you feel a little conceited - thinking as if you're some great prince that's meant to sweep John off his feet, and it's just that neither of you have realized it yet.

Yet, if that isn't the case, why are all the pieces falling into place, tragic as those pieces may be?

Casey sitting on your lap while you decided to give the two lovebirds a bit of alone time, she's kicking her feet and humming "It's a small world" to herself. The both of you have decided that that ride and song are both pretty much the lamest things in existence, but dang it if the song isn't the catchiest thing since some CD she likes.

Soon John and Molly are heading back over, and your eyes light up as you hold Casey in one arm, standing, and waving on over to him. He's grinning himself as he waves, hand held limply with Molly's. "How was the ride, did you two make out?" you holler teasingly, clearly not really wanting the answer but wanting to see John huff at you incredulously. He does, just as you anticipated, and an almost genuinely laugh makes its way out.

Molly's just shaking her head but following quickly, but the more time you spend near her since that fateful conversation, you find your stomach twisting into knots at the fox-eyed pity she wears. You know she meant no harm, and in a way you're sort of touched by her attempts at sympathy and kindness in your situation, but it all feels so… horrid. You've always been the type to outright detest when anyone felt sorry for you, and made it a point for no one to see you that way, and yet it just keeps happening and happening.

But you don't want to let yourself get caught up in that, so you're shaking the worries from yourself and going back to joking with John and cuddling Casey, making your trek onto the way to the next ride. You try to appreciate the down moments for what they are - after all, life's not a fairytale, and a family trip to Disneyland while being part of a family sure sounds like one to you.

And the day continues, as the past couple before that have just the same. You can't tell anymore if you're excited for them to leave, or frightened for them to stay. You admit that sharing your living experience with your greatest pain isn't the greatest experience by any means, but at once you did this for a reason and that reason rings true each time John laughs at some dumb joke you made.

And you thought you were doing a great job of keeping this under wraps and keeping everything as it ought to be, but it doesn't seem to be that way. When more time has passed, you're alone with Casey once more, and the sunset is painting her cheeks with swatches of orange and gold. Both your tongues are waiting for the sweet taste of the ice cream cones both her parents have promised and are off getting, but otherwise you're sitting in relative silence, enjoying the occasional moments that toddlers try to think and understand things.

Eventually though she looks up at you, and you notice her once-brushed hair is messy yet again. "'ey Davey?"

You're raising your eyebrows at her over your sunglasses. "Yeah, kiddo?"

"Do you love Daddy like Mommy loves Daddy?"

And if you had anything in your mouth you swear you'd be choking on it. This kid will be the death of you, you're sure of it.

You wonder in the brief seconds before you answer, if everyone's noticed and just says nothing, or if due to all the facades and lies and complications people face over life, they just lose sight of people for their real selves. Because hell, this kid has gotten everything and she's just fucking three years old, come on, what the fuck is up with that?

You sigh, swallowing, because you promised yourself you'd never lie to her, but you also can't just answer just because a fucking kid asked you to. So you answer with a question, "What makes ya think that?"

She pauses, seeming to have just expected a yes or a no, contorting her little lips in weird shapes while she thinks. "I think it 'cause… Davey jus' cares a lot, 'nd he looks sad whenever Daddy leaves wit' Mommy, but 'e gets happy with Daddy." She nods, thinking that's a good answer.

You sigh again, nodding and adjusting her in your arms. "Yeah, that about covers it I guess. But telling your dad would make your mom and dad very sad, because it's a sad thing when someone doesn't love you too," as you try this out it all sounds so messed up, and you have no idea if you're even explaining it right. "So just a secret between us, 'kay?" and you make a secret motion in front of your mouth, which she quickly mimics.

"'Kay!" And soon you're licking at your ice cream, wondering if your life is that one movie all the teenage girls rush to see where the hearthrob loves his best friend with the jocky perfect boyfriend, and everyone knows until she finally realizes. Except, confession done or not, you aren't sure if you're gonna have the happy ending in the sunset.