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Her hair is white and falls about her shoulders in bouncy waves.
Her eyes are blue like crystal and her lashes pale as snow.
Her lips are small and colourless like the blossom that plummets from trees in early spring.
Her skin is almost translucent in its pallor.
Her figure is tall and skinny, fragile like glass.
She always reminded me of ice: Beautiful, colourless but brittle.
I remember the time when I was the only one who thought she was beautiful; the time when her eyes were hidden behind thick-lensed glasses.
I remember the time when everyone thought she was weird. She was the strange, quiet girl who nobody noticed. Nobody, apart from me.
I remember the time when I believed in her when no one else would. I remember the time when I looked after her and comforted her. I remember the time when I was the one person who really cared.
Now her face is all over posters, her fragile figure posing in whatever they put on her.
Now her white hair is paraded up and down the catwalk, her blue eyes outshone by her eyeshadow, her colourless lashes ruined with mascara.
Now, I am forgotten.
She tells herself that she has friends now.
She tells herself that everyone cares about her now.
But the other models just circle like vultures waiting to steal the limelight once she’s out of the picture.
Her employers, her agent, her makeup artists all bustle about her, never really looking her in the face.
I still care.
I'm still here, ready to pick up the pieces when her ice shatters.
But to her, I am invisible.
Now I’m the one nobody notices; just another loser in a suit; a loser who never really fulfilled himself.
Now everybody knows her name. Everybody but me: She never told me.