Years ago, she never would have thought that love was real. Love was just something you read about in story books, a thing in fairy tales, something so pure and perfect it couldnt possibly exist. Love was a figment of a childs imagination, but not this child, she thought it naught but a sweet story whispered to the innocents in their sleep, something to weave dreams that would give them ideas, and make them live that false pretense in their later years.

'Love'. She scoffed the idea.

Years passed, and she became hard, cold, unfeeling. The smile on her face was painted, she had learned to pretend. Some might have called her depressed, or disturbed, she thought she was real, grounded, solid...safe. She was free from the ache and pain that came from failing to grasp that 'dream', failing to hold on to 'love'. She was free from the 'broken-heart' plague that seemed to sweep the teens around her, safe away from the sticky, sickly-sweet 'emotion' that they felt. She felt protected, but all she was was cold.

She wasnt dead, no she was too real for that. She was alive, but not living. What was the point of partaking in something so false, so fragile and fake that a few simple words could make or break a persons soul? Why be a part of the glass and silicone race? The people around her who wailed and sobbed over their so called 'heart-ache', then days later seemed to have the inate ability to bounce back as though their 'tragedy' hadnt happened. It was all so fake, and she hated it. So she put on her mask and learned to pretend. She was a comforting shoulder, a reassuring smile, a helping hand and happy face when she needed to be. When she was alone, she was stone and ice, cold and hard and unforgiving. Indifferent to what hit it or what it hit, uncaring of what it was or what was around it. She was alive, but she wasnt living. Not an animated corpse, but inanimate just the same.

Then, something changed. Was this... a flicker of feeling, a spark of warmth? It started with a boy. His shadowy eyes, hung head, and blank stare. Utter silence, utter indifference. To her it was familiarity... no, not familiar, it was a cry for help. It was a want to be heard, a want for a voice. It was this boy that cracked her mask, that shattered her resolve not to feel. A glance at him against the wall was a glance in the mirror, one reflecting deeper. He was not part of the fake glass and silicone people. He was paper and silk, shadow and ice. Fragile, shady and reserved, kept apart from the rest and radiating that same chilling absence she knew came from herself. His skin was her own, cold and hard, a protective barrier, his eyes hers, empty and hollow, watching without interest at the porcelin dolls who lived their lives with rubber hearts. His pain was hers, a deep scar running inhuman lengths, that no one elses eyes could see. There was a connection, a blink of sorrow and compassion, a sudden flush of empathy and caring, but then, the shadows faded in again.

These flickers continued, and she followed them, reaching out her hand, not as the masked face of a Pretender, but in honest help...embraced him, cared for him. Time passed and these flickers grew longer, spanning out into small ripples and waves, and eventually rushes and floods, till she was full with them. The stone cracked and wore away under the rush, and the ice melted in the heat of these new and unfamiliar things. Smiles were natural now, laughter not so hollow, eyes not so empty. And it seemed a similar case for the boy cloaked in shadows, he no longer seemed so shaded, so fragile. The boy of paper and silk was gaining stability, strength, a heavier weave that could hold. The shadows seemed a little less dense, that frozen core beneath the paper exterior a little less solid, a little less cold.

As time went, a thought occured in her head. 'Love'...maybe not such a fairy tale, maybe not so fake. If it were real enough that is, not what the glass and silicone dolls claimed it was. Maybe it was that warmth that sat beneath her ribcage, or that pleasent lightness that hugged itself in her chest. Maybe it was that irresistable urge to smile, though the cause was unknown. Maybe.. it was the boy of paper and silk. Either way, this thing had a life it seemed, not just a story. It appeared as though that untouchable dream was something in the way of corporeal now. She wasnt 'protected' anymore, trapped within her stone shell. This was more free, easy. Maybe it all wasnt just a childs story, or that seductively sweet whisper of far off hopes.

But then again, whats wrong with a fairy tale ending?