Author: Chelseamuffin PM
It's a dance, darling, and we're both amateurs. Soon enough, we're going to fall. Hard.Rated: Fiction T - English - Romance/Angst - Words: 6,732 - Reviews: 27 - Favs: 32 - Follows: 2 - Published: 07-29-08 - Status: Complete - id: 2552033
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
AN: This is a challenge response. The requirements are:
General Idea: Write a one-shot based on a song, either one from the SKoW playlist or another of your choice - as long as it's even remotely related to love, it'll do.
- the story must follow the plot of the song
- the title of the song must be the title of the story, or at least a part of it (ex: Walking By: Pete's Story, with the song in question being "Walking By" from Something Corporate... you get the gist)
- you must use at least three lines from the song as narration or dialogue. Be sure to bold or underline them.
- give us what song you're using at the beginning of the chapter, along with all the usual skow challenge requirements
- must be at least 6000 words
- this is not a "songfic" so no free-hanging verses in the middle of the story (all song lines added in must make sense and flow with the rest of the story)
Optional: you could turn the one-shot into a chaptered story by using a different song for each chapter; if you're feeling really creative, use the same artist and/or album for the whole story.
I used the song "Almost Lover" by A Fine Frenzy. Beautiful song. : ) I also underlined the song lyrics in mine, just because it looked better to me, and it's less painful on the eyes.
It all started when I was a naïve little girl. I was seventeen, you were nineteen, and it was just so fine and nice and happy. Life, I mean. I never wanted it to end. My time with you never really ended, you know. When I wasn't in your arms, when you weren't talking to me and laughing and kissing and hugging and cuddling—you only ever cuddled with me, and it made me feel so goddamn special. You never cuddled with any of your other girlfriends, before or after. It still makes me feel kind of warm and special. I don't know if that's a good or a bad thing, but you still make it happen every single time.
Anyway, when I wasn't physically with you, I'd go home and I'd daydream about you, and when it came time for me to go to sleep, I'm sure I'd dream about you. I guess it'd be safe to say that my entire life revolved around you, or that you were my life.
I remember the first time I ever saw you, how dumb and shy I was. I looked like an idiot then, too, but you said that you found it cute. You said that you didn't know any seventeen-year-olds who dressed up as Tinkerbell for Halloween, and then you said that she was one of your favourite Disney characters ever.
Just the fact that you liked Disney was enough to make me become a puddle of warm goo.
So I thrust my bag forward and said "Trick or treat!" and you dumped a bunch of candy into my bag and that was that. You closed the door and I turned around and walked all the way to the next house, and repeated the actions there.
They gave me better candy than you did.
I mean seriously, Twix? Who likes Twix? Crunchie bars or nothing, boy.
Next time I saw you, I was running around Ashley's house in my underwear and a tank top, screaming at the top of my lungs, "I see London, I see France, I see Kelly's underpants!" I did it on a dare, but you were staring at me like I was such a freak, and I got so red and walked into the house, totally humiliated.
The morning after that, I was leaving the sleepover with my hood up, but I dropped something while I was getting into my car. You were there with your dog and a grin, so you picked it up and walked over to me.
"Oh, hi. Kelly, was it?" you said, and my cheeks burned. Or you said something like it, anyway. I don't really remember anymore. It was so, so long ago.
There was no doubting it; you were totally hot. Drop-dead gorgeous, I-want-to-stab-my-eyes-out-because-I-can't-handle-this-level-of-scrumptiousness. I mean come on, you were totally flaunting a hot body in that sweatshirt and pair of jeans.
Or, well, okay. You were flaunting your nice legs, you jerk, and they totally seduced me.
"Yeah. Boy-who-lives-near-my-friend, was it?" I said back, taking the pair of underwear that I'd dropped and you'd picked up.
"Cameron, actually," you said, and I really, really liked your voice. Like, I hated seeing you right then and there, but your legs kept me interested. "These the same ones you were wearing last night?" You were smiling in that really sexy way that made my knees want to give out.
And that's exactly what they did.
God, did you ever know that you'd fall for such a klutz? I couldn't even stay standing once you smiled that smile and showed me those crooked pearly whites. (Ever heard of braces, by the way?) I mean, really; lack of self-control is one thing, but that was something entirely different. I'll bet you knew right from the start that I was another one of the girls who liked the way you looked.
So we went out for coffee. Or, well, I did. You went out for doughnuts. But since neither of us had anyone else to go with, we pretended that we were with each other even though we were pretty quiet the whole time. I mean, really; we weren't even dating and you'd already seen me in my underwear. What else was there to say?
"Coffee already? So young, too," you said, finally making awkward conversation.
"Yep. I needed to stay up late one night for this major project and it kept me awake. Now I just really like the way it tastes," I answered, tapping the top of my coffee cup with my fingertip.
"So you're addicted. Caffeine, my dear friend, is a drug!" you said, and I raised an eyebrow at your chocolate icing-covered mouth as the words came out of it.
"Friend?" I asked. I shook my head. "Acquaintances, my dear—acquaintance."
And then it got quiet again. I sipped my coffee and you bit into your doughnuts and scrunched up the napkins. I was trying not to look at you or your legs, because I wanted to forget that you were there. I didn't want a romance in my life, and that's all that you'd turn into; a romance that would leave me heartbroken and miserable and wanting more but knowing I can't have it.
We got up together and walked out the door together. We shook hands then went our separate ways. I knew we'd see each other again, and you knew it, obviously; you lived on the same street as my best friend. It was to be expected. I guess that's why we held our hands together for just a little bit longer than we should have. But it felt so weird, because your fingertips across my skin were all sticky and I just wanted to wash my hands afterwards. It was kind of gross, anyway.
I hated shaking hands with people, the way that I hated taking money from them. Nobody ever knew where that money had been before, just like I never knew where that hand had been before. I'm not just talking about masturbating, but picking noses or getting the food from between teeth, or scratching butts—I never knew where these peoples' hands had been just before touching mine.
That was our second meeting.
Our third meeting, you were waiting for me outside of Ashley's house, telling me that your dog just needed to make a pit stop at the tree in her yard (which she didn't appreciate, by the way). As soon as I walked out of her door, you got a smug look on your face and started talking to me.
"Stalking me, Kelly?" you asked.
"No, but I'm starting to think that you're stalking me, Cameron," I answered. I walked to my car and was going to open the door, but I saw your reflection in my window and turned around before you could try to scare me.
"Well, maybe I am," you said, grinning that sexy grin and leaning with those sexy legs.
"Well, sir, that's kind of creepy, so I'd like to get into my car, drive away, and never come back, please."
"Ah, but what kind of stalker would I be if I let you do something like that?" you asked, and your smile got bigger and less dazzling, because it drew more attention to the fact that your teeth weren't very nice to look at.
"A really, really nice one?"
"No, a really, really nice stalker would ask you to get coffee—for you—and doughnuts—for him—with him," you told me, taking my hand and leading me away from my car. I had no choice but to go with you, which was all as well, I guess, because a lovely bird came and shat right where I'd been standing, about two seconds after I moved.
So since I owed you my life and all, I went with you, and pretty soon, you were my boyfriend and I was your girlfriend, and I'd never been happier. You were really nice, pretty smart, and you were patient with me and you never ever made me shake your hand, and those legs of yours were mine to ogle.
But I guess that's where the problems started.
There was no "ours" in our relationship—or your and my relationship. It was always all about you and me, and how you got my kisses, and I got your lovely voice. You got my smile, and I got your legs. We, as two people, got everything we wanted; but we, as a whole, got nothing, and that started our slow destruction.
It was always one fight after another, about anything and everything that came to mind, but when we really came down to it and stripped it to its bare bones, our arguments were all the very same thing; I didn't give you enough of my (your) kisses, and you didn't let me see enough of your (my) legs.
We were happy to be with each other, but we weren't really happy with each other. I mean, we had our moments, like I loved it when you held me really close, and it drove me crazy when you kissed me, because they were just—amazing. But as soon as one of us opened our big mouths… there was chaos, and we yelled and screamed and hated each other. I always went home crying and stuffed my face with cookie dough ice cream.
I loved you, but I couldn't stand you.
Eventually, when you spoke, I stopped listening to what you said and instead only heard the sweet lull of your voice. It's just like how you stopped looking at me, and only saw my little happy smile. I loved you in parts, but hated you as a whole, and it was tearing me apart to have to choose if I wanted that or not, just like I knew it was tearing you apart.
So we made love on my eighteenth birthday—or had sex, whatever you want to call it, since I don't think we were ever really in love. I don't know, we somehow got it into our heads that it might fix things, make them better, if we forced ourselves to finally give ourselves to one another. And it did, for a while. I loved you, and not even your words could make me not love you. I listened to what you said, and I found that I really didn't mind it. It felt like we were back to the beginning of our relationship again, on a whole new level. It really was "our" relationship, no longer "yours and mine".
"I love you," you'd tell me, and you'd hold me and kiss my neck while I giggled an "I love you too" to you. And we'd cuddle, and everyone would look at us as "that couple", the one that they all wanted to be. Because we were perfect for each other—or looked it, anyway. I don't think we really were, but didn't everyone believe it at that time, including us?
My friends and I still did the whole "sleepover" thing at eighteen. I—once again—went to Ashley's house, and she—once again—dared me to walk around in that old Tinkerbell costume for an hour. I went trick-or-treating in the middle of July. I felt like a five-year-old trapped in the body of an eighteen-year-old, because I stomped and threw a tantrum over it, but eventually gave in.
The first house they made me go to was yours. You'd just gotten out of the shower when you answered the door.
"Um… trick-or-treat?" I said, putting my bag forward.
You gave me that sexy dangerous look, and said, "I don't know, what does this trick involve?" in that really sexy way that made me want you. "If it involves rope of some sort—"
"It does involve rope, as a matter of fact. I'd tie you down, get naked, then prance around like that for a long, long time, and you wouldn't be able to do anything but watch me, but not touch. Now give me the candy," I snapped, and you laughed.
"Feisty, I like that," you said in your sex-god voice, and it was getting me hot, but I didn't give in, and instead shook my empty bag right under your nose. You were still laughing when you gave me a half-eaten Twix bar.
"Twix?" I whined. "Why do men have such bad taste in chocolate?"
You were still laughing when you shut the door in my face (um, ouch?), but I got over it and went to the next house, where they apologized politely (and gave me the weirdest looks known to mankind), and they were so sorry that they had no candy. They said that they'd be happy to give me some on Halloween.
We made love often, after our first time. You seemed especially eager the night after my Halloween-in-July, but you requested that I wear my Tinkerbell costume for you. You said that I looked "so sexy" in that. I spent an all of two minutes in the outfit before you took it off of me and started touching me. It felt so goddamn good.
But after a while, even that stopped. You told me that you still loved me—just that making love so often got kind of tiring, so you needed a break from it sometimes, and that we could just cuddle instead every once in a while.
Basically, you were telling me that you didn't find me sexy anymore.
Eventually we only made love once a month, if we were lucky. It got to be too tiring for you, and I just wasn't feeling it anymore. I began faking for your benefit, but I never really was that great an actress and you saw right through it. It became a once-in-a-while thing, when we had the time.
I couldn't take it anymore, eventually. We were dancing circles around one another, never a couple, one always trying to outshine the other. We were a dancing pair, but we never danced together, because I hated hearing your words, and you hated seeing my eyes. But I hated dancing alone, because if I leapt, I needed someone to be there to catch me, and you just weren't that person.
When I told you that I couldn't pretend that we were right for each other, I hated myself almost as much as I hated you. You made it so goddamn hard for me to do, because you had the sweetest sadness in your eyes, and I just wanted to take you in my arms and hold you until my heart stopped hurting, and until yours stopped breaking. But what I said was said, and I couldn't take it back, so I did the only thing I knew how and ran away from my problems.
"Look, I just want to see you happy… I thought you'd want the same for me, but I guess not," I told you. I put out my hand, willing to shake yours because I knew where it had been, and because it seemed like a more appropriate thing to do. It was the last time I'd shake your hand; that part of us was ending, as was your and my relationship. We were over, and it sucked, but life went on and I thought about us less and less every day.
I was nineteen and you were twenty-one when we started talking again. I had a boyfriend and you had a girlfriend, but there was no denying the attraction when we bumped into each other—of all places, in a grocery store. I was strolling with my shopping cart, and I wasn't watching where I was going, so I walked into one of those big towers of cans. (Why did people build those anyway? They were like huge beacons that attracted klutzes and troublemakers.)
Anyway, it went crash, I went "Ow," you went "Haha," and that was that. I was bruised, you were happy, and everyone else was pissed at all the commotion caused by a bunch of "hooligans". I was so not a hooligan, I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time, and I know that they all say that, but it's true in my case!
… O-kay, not very convincing…
You offered me your hand to help me up, but I knew what it meant to take it. Taking it would be like shaking hands again, like that part of us never died. Taking it would be me making the first step in destroying the happiness we had with others for the unhappiness that we had with each other. It would mean putting myself in a position that I never wanted to be in again, with a person that I couldn't stand.
It was like we were doing a dance again; me and Mike, you and Helene. Mike caught me after I leapt; dipped me and held me. You watched, and you tried to keep up, and you did a great job. It was all perfect, so perfect, too perfect. I didn't want this, and you didn't want it. You dipped Helene and dropped her; Mike spun me and I let go. We came together, closer, closer—and you took my hand and danced with me.
For a while, we were great dance partners. We twirled and leapt and dipped awkwardly and imperfectly, but it was amazing at the same time, because we were still learning and I liked that part of relationships the most. We really danced together, even though we were no good at it. We didn't try to outshine one another for once—we fed off of each other, sharing our talent, really dancing as one person divided into two bodies.
Those legs were mine again.
We were all about holding hands and cuddling under a big blanket and watching rainfalls and kissing during thunderstorms, and you were all about giving me flowers and I was all about showing you all of my love. You liked to spoil me; I liked to be spoiled. It was like a match made in Heaven, for some small amount of time. It was like we were meant to be again. It was like we were going to last.
"I love you," I said, and you looked up from whatever you were doing and smiled at me, but I was never sure if your eyes were on my face or my mouth. When you said it back, I didn't listen to your words, only the way your voice sounded as it said them.
You meant it.
"How much?" I wanted to know, but I knew that I'd never know. Your words fell to deaf ears, because I wasn't listening. I guess I just wanted to hear your voice, and feel your arms wrap themselves around me and pull me up against your chest. You always knew that I had a soft spot on my neck, and you always knew just where to kiss to find it.
Soon enough, I found myself naked and between your sheets, happy but exhausted after making love, and waiting for you to come back into bed after brushing your teeth. I always found it kind of funny how you did stuff like that right after making love every time. You had this sick obsession with keeping your teeth clean, but not perfect. What I mean is that they were probably the whitest teeth I've ever seen, but they were still crooked and weird. You didn't care about that, though.
When you finally came back into bed, I smiled and your eyes went right down to my mouth—never mind my naked body, you had eyes only for my mouth. It was kind of like how my eyes went right to your legs, watching you walk towards me. Your abs, your arms, your back—they were all nice, but they just weren't the same as your legs.
I understood and I still loved the feel of your arms all around me, holding me as close as possible while we tried to sleep, but it wasn't the same as when I saw your legs. They were honestly probably the part of you that I found sexiest, followed by your voice, and then your personality.
I had a weird dream that night. The first time having sex after we got back together, I mean. I don't remember what it was about, but I remember that it was weird because I woke up late with a weird feeling and no one else in the bed. You weren't in the shower, and you weren't making me breakfast in bed, like you had after our very first time together. You weren't anywhere, and I was angry and panicking at the same time, because who does that?
So I got dressed and tried to call you, but didn't get any answer on your cell phone. I stormed out of my house and drove all the way to yours, banged on the door and screamed for a good ten minutes. One of your neighbours eventually came outside and told me that, obviously, you weren't home, because your car was clearly not in your driveway, so I should just shut up and get myself a life.
I actually sat on your porch for five hours, waiting for you to get home. It let my anger slowly build and build until I didn't even want to hear the sound of your voice or look at your legs anymore. I wanted to run back into Mike's arms, but I knew that it was pointless because he was with Helene, and I still loved you too much to go to anyone else.
When you got there, I was so pissed. I yelled and I screamed in your face, with my eyes closed so that I couldn't see your legs and forget why I was yelling. I didn't even give you a chance to explain yourself. I still don't get why you just took it, though. I still don't get why you didn't even try to fight back, why you didn't grab my arms and make me stop hitting you. Eventually you just took me into your arms and cried, and I found that I couldn't yell at you after that.
We stood on your porch and cried for I don't know how long, and it was weird because you were so much taller, but I felt so much bigger. Not like fat, but as a person. I felt like I had so much power over you, like I could do anything and you'd just take it.
And with all of that power, I just cried with you.
I don't know what I was crying for, but I cried into your shoulder like you were crying into mine, and it was a nice feeling, in a twisted way. I had you back. After worrying about you all day, after getting angry with you all day, I had you back and I was so goddamn happy right then to have you in my arms and to feel yours around me.
I got home much later that night—after midnight, I think. I got home later, and I saw your post-it stuck to the lamp in my room. I took it down and I admired your handwriting, even if it was really messy. Your K was big and fancy, and the "ell" looked like a staircase of loops because they got taller as you went on. The y was the big finish; it had a low scoop and a huge curve at the end, with the tail almost touching the stem.
Kelly, it read in your messy-but-perfect writing, sorry I had to leave so early. Today was my granddad's birthday, so I went to his grave to pay my respects. I hope you're not mad,
I went to bed feeling kind of cold and lonely that night, because I didn't have your arms around me. I'd been yelling and hitting you when all you needed was a comforting hand on your shoulder, and a few kisses on your lips. I felt so horrible, so bad, like I didn't deserve you, but a part of me knew that it wouldn't change anything between us—or you and me. I knew that you'd still take me for what I was, because you needed someone who would trip with you while dancing, instead of the perfect dance partner.
I was right, and you forgave me, but things were always a little bit more tense after then. I couldn't blame you for anything unless I knew the full story, and you took complete advantage of that. I don't know if you ever lied to me about how certain things happened or not, because it was always hard to tell when you were lying.
Eventually I stopped believing you whenever you opened your mouth. And we were back to our dance of only listening to your voice, and only seeing my smile. We hadn't gone back to things being about "you and me" and never "us", but things were as bad as though we had. It was so damn hard to be in a relationship with someone like you, just like I know you found it hard to be with me.
But the thing with us is that we're not happy together, but we're miserable when we're not together. When I was with you, you made me smile and kiss you and love you, but when we were apart, I grew to hate you for making my heart ache so much. You made me love you, but you made me hate you. In some weird way, you warped my emotions into something unrecognizable, into something that not many people could ever relate to, and it was so weird but so refreshing at the same time.
I began to wonder if I had this special obsession with pain, because that was all that you ever brought me, but I could never get enough of you. Of your legs, your voice, and I was even starting to like the way that your Adam's apple bobbed whenever you swallowed. I wanted to kiss it.
It became my Adam's apple.
It was like I stopped caring, in a way. I mean, I still did, deep down—but I wasn't even sure what I cared about anymore. I still loved you but I don't really think I cared for you. I stopped feeling pleasure when we made love. I still faked for you, but eventually you didn't want that kind of pleasure anymore, so we just stopped. We were like a couple that had been married for ten years, but we were only twenty and twenty-two.
We could still manage to be in the same room, but we were back to dancing our old dance. You wouldn't catch me, so I wouldn't go leaping into your arms. I knew that if you dipped me, you'd drop me, so I wouldn't let you near me. We couldn't dance together, so we tried our best on our solo dances for a while. I watched your legs kick and move, and you watched my mouth smile while I spun.
You held me close in your arms, and I put my head on your chest, and we really looked like we were still a happy couple, but I knew the truth about us, and so did you.
We walked along a crowded street, hand-in-hand, and people turned to look at us. I guess we radiated some kind of magical force or something. I don't know. But it was like they were jealous of us or something, and how we still managed to smile and look happy in public.
It happened so fast. You said that you couldn't do it anymore, that I was too selfish, that I hurt you too much, that I asked for too much of you, that everything I did was just not right. You said that you couldn't play my game anymore (what game? This was a dance), and that you wanted out of this, out of your and my relationship (what happened to "our" relationship?).
And when you left, you kissed my lips, and it was like you sucked my heart up through my mouth or something, because I felt empty, cold, and alone. You didn't make me shake your hand this time, because that didn't work to make it final last time. It was our last real "kiss", if you could even call it that.
I know you still wanted me. It was so obvious when you looked at me, and I know it hurt you so much to have to hurt me like that. I know that it killed a little part of you inside, and your Adam's apple bobbed when you swallowed your tears, and your sexy legs walked away from me. The lullaby that was your voice disappeared, because everyone knows that wind doesn't really carry lost words. No matter how much we hope for it, everyone knows that it just doesn't happen.
I really don't know how long I sat there and watched where you disappeared. I imagined you walking away. I still saw it in my mind. I memorized the way that your legs moved, and the way that the wind blew your hair all messy, but not your words. I sat there and I stared at the empty spot, waiting for you to come back and fill it, because it just wasn't right to see it so empty. It didn't deserve to be empty right there.
I moved when it started raining, because I was cold and shivering and sitting there any longer would have just hurt my butt. So I got up and managed to drag myself home, at which point I threw my body onto my bed (where we'd made love countless times) and fell asleep (on your side of the bed).
After that, there was only a you, and only a me. I guess that that was the one thing that didn't change, since we were never an "us". But we couldn't even pretend that we were one anymore, and I hated that, because everyone always asked me how the "golden couple" could break up so suddenly. Because, you know, it didn't hurt to hear about how you just left me. Not at all, because I clearly had a heart of ice.
But I was twenty-one by then and I had a job, and I had a life and it just had to keep on going, because everything didn't stop just for you. It should've, because I really wanted everything to just freeze until I got out of my little protective cocoon, but nothing stopped, and the world kept spinning 'round and 'round, and it was no time before you found yourself a new dance partner.
You saw that spark in her about a month after we broke up—or sooner, since you two were clearly together before I first set eyes on you. You were sitting together in a park, and I was walking by and I saw you. She had her hand on your wonderful leg (like I used to touch it), and you were talking to her in your melodic voice (that used to whisper sweet nothings into my ear), and I saw your (my) Adam's apple bob while you were laughing. Laughing, not crying.
I know it was all an act that you put on, because you saw me, and you were probably looking at my mouth. Your Adam's apple stopped bobbing and I know that you wanted to take me into your arms to make me feel better, because that's what you always did when I was sad. I know that you still loved me and that you were just filling that empty spot in your heart (why not the empty spot in the street?) with some poor girl who actually loved you.
I still loved you too, but I guess that was just that and we were really over this time. I felt the attraction, and I'm sure you did, but I knew that we couldn't put ourselves through with our twisted happiness again.
So I turned around and walked right out of your life. I never once saw you again.
I still think about you, all the time. You're like a constant ghost haunting me. It's like you want us to be you and me, together, instead of you and me, divided, and part of me really thinks that you do. Maybe it's just me that wants that, I don't know. Because I know that I still love you—in parts. I am totally and completely yours, there's no denying it. You're my world, my everything, and I know that if you just asked me to go get coffee—for me—and a doughnut—for you—I would've gone, and we would've been unhappy in your and my romance, but in such a way that it was bearable.
It's almost like we're still dancing together, in some weird way. Whenever I remember you (every second of every day), I remember our dance. I miss it all the time, even if it's all about me trying to outshine you, or you dropping me while you dip me. I miss it because I get to see your legs that I love so much, and you get to see my smile that you love so much.
I guess I never really loved you, and you never really loved me. We never made love, we had sex and enjoyed one another's bodies, which was fine by me because it felt good for a certain amount of time. But in the end, I guess I only loved your legs and your voice and your Adam's apple, and you only loved my kisses and my smile and my underwear. I was just the mind and the body that went with those things, just like you were just the mind and torso that went with everything else.
I knew from the beginning, in a way—ever since everything became yours and mine instead of ours. I knew that I didn't love you, but I guess I just pretended that I loved you with all my heart and soul, because those legs were a part of you and I really did love them. They were what seduced me in the first place, just like my underwear seduced you in the first place.
I still can't hear music without wanting to start dancing, but it's not right for me to dance without you as my partner. It's not right for me to leap into someone else's arms, because they'll catch me, and I just don't know if I want to be caught anymore. I'm scared that if someone dips me they'll hold on, but you got me so used to being dropped that it just wouldn't feel right.
You taught me to dance alone, and I can. But I need a partner who knows how to dance alone with me, like you do. I need someone who doesn't mind that I want to outshine, like you do. I need someone who'll drop me and let go when I spin, because it just teaches me how to get right back up. I need someone who won't care that I don't listen to what they say. I need someone who'll just let me listen to the sound of their voice, the way you always did.
I should've known right from the beginning that you were a mistake. When you gave me candy on that Halloween night, I should've known. And I think that I did. But you got me anyway, because you had those legs and that awkward smile that made me want to stick braces in your mouth. I think I knew all along that you'd bring me heartache, because almost lovers always do, and that's exactly what you were. You were my almost lover, my luckless romance.
And it's because of our luckless romance that I dance around a lot, all by myself. I pretend that you're there to not catch me, and that you're there to drop me when you dip me, because I guess some of me hopes that you'll come and actually do it someday. Part of me actually hopes that you'll see me twirling and prancing and leaping and falling in my little Tinkerbell costume, and remember a time where you were happier, with that girl that you hated, but loved. It hopes that you'll come back so that we can finally finish it and destroy ourselves together. But I know that you won't.
Almost lovers never do.
AN: So this is another SKoW challenge response, even though I know it'll be, what, a year before it can qualify for anything? This one was more for me and getting my creative flow going again, and because the song wouldn't leave my head until I wrote this! And in the end, I kind of liked it. Sure, there are some things I'd want to change around, after having re-read it, but changing those would have changed the course of the story, I think.
Hope you enjoyed, I'm not used to writing something this long. I thought I'd try and make it interesting, hope that worked! : D