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At Night, She Dances

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Dark circles had formed under her eyes, for she hadn’t slept in four days. Her eyes were still bright, and her smile, still wide, but on the inside, she was hurting. I could feel her pain from across a room. I could see that under those sweet gray eyes, were tears, held back by only the strongest of damns.

But she wore a mask. A beautiful mask. She smiled, and she laughed. She danced, oh God, she danced. Her feet were curved, the middle part of them never touched the floor. She either stood up on her toes, or rocked back on her heels.

And in her spare time, she tore through book after book. That was only in the light of the day though. In the dark of the night, she danced. Spins and jumps, and nearly breaking her toes in the process, but God it was lovely. And I got the privilege of watching.

And one day, she let me dance with her. And of course, I’m an awful dancer. One of the worst dancers you’ll ever meet, probably. But when she touched my hand, I felt I could actually do something with my near useless limbs. I felt so light on my feet, and not clumsy at all.

When the dancing was done with, I smiled. And so did she, but it wasn’t one of those fake smiles. It was real. I could tell.

We talked of magic, and faeries, and such things as that, which only existed in dreams, or stories. And that was when I learned why she was so sad. These dances and make-believe magics were to get away from the harsh reality that is our world.

And I dance with her every night now

And every night after.
She smiles.

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