There's something vicious, angry, about the way she takes her makeup off, the makeup wipe clenched in her shaking hand bruising her cheek as she wipes (the action is meant to be gentle, but with the amount of strength and force she uses to complete the action turns a wipe into a strike) the blush that had done nothing to steer his attention to her off her face. Her hand moves the pink and peach stained makeup wipe to her eyes, swiping, slashing at her eye line over and over, back and forth and back and forth, coloring the makeup wipe with dashes of the ebony mascara that had failed to interest him. She stares at the mirror. The girl who is perched there gazes back with glazed eyes, face scrubbed raw, almost to the point of drawing blood, lips tenderly trembling. As she looks upon her reflection, broken because she was so ignored, so overlooked, so underestimated in the eyes of a boy (who she was so stupidly in love with) she couldn't have, she cries. She slides down the tile wall of the ballroom bathroom, the tile ridges scraping her back as she rests her head on the heat sapping floor, closing her eyes, and falls asleep.
He watches her dash out of the ballroom, her sprite-ish blue-green slip of a dress lingering in his mind; and he figure, since he is her friend he should go after her, see if she's alright-she deserves it. His feet take him out of the ballroom, navigating him through couples and dancers, and he finds himself standing outside the girls bathroom. She was in there, he just knew, but he instead he stands outside, hand hovering on the doorknob; he is, most defiantly, stalling, but he thinks he's aloud a extra bit of time to brace himself before he walks in on... something.
He opens the door; mouth falling open, then closes, opens, closes as he takes in the sight of her unconscious on the floor. His brain goes into autopilot (shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-shit), and he races over to her, bending over and checking for a pulse, for any sign that she isn't dead. He finds one – a steady, strong pulse that seems almost comical compared to what she looks like. He brushes some hair out of her face, tenderly, and lifts her up, cradling her close to his chest, and walks out the bathroom door, out of the ballroom into the cold night air, gets a taxi, and during the ride, he cradles her head in his hands as if it is the whole world.