Girls scream his name when they see him. I wonder if it feels the same way for them when they say his name. If it rolls off their tongue just perfectly, sending an amazing sensation across their entire being. I wonder what they see when they look at him. Do they see the sweet Arden I grew up with, or do they see the cold, stone faced Arden?
As he gets off stage with the rest of the band members the girls around me scream for what seems like hours until we are all forced out of the performance venue and into the fan-signing area. A smirk finds its way on my face as I push passed the girls all the way to the dressing rooms. I flash my ID and the security lets me pass by.
Without knocking, I walk right into the dressing room that holds their band. Arden was standing in front of the mirror with his shirt undone and his pants halfway off. With years of practice I am now able to hold down a blush for more than 30 minutes.
“That’s a nice look for ya,” I coo and he turns around with a flustered expression. He scrambles to pull up his pants, but falls to the floor in his failed attempt. Still on the floor, covered in sweat, he was prettier than me. I bite my lip and help him up. I start buttoning his shirt, much to his protest, just like I used to when we were young.
“You’re not supposed to be in here.” Arden pouts, avoiding my gaze. I laugh lightly, straightening his collar.
“When has that stopped me before?”
Arden smiled the first smile I have seen of his in what seemed like months. My heart swelled with happiness and I had to fight my body really hard to keep the blush down. To distract myself from my growing attraction I start fixing his hair, which was covered in sweat.
“You know I have people to do that, right?” He says quietly. In the midst of fixing his hair I flick his ear, making him pull away slightly. Arden looked like a sad puppy holding his ear in mock offense.
Even when making faces he is prettier than me.
I smile sadly and turn away from him to get ahold of myself before I spiral into depression. Arden comes up behind me and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“What’s wrong?” His apathetic voice wouldn’t affect many others, but I could dissect the sympathy out of it. I shake his hand off and smile at him from over my shoulder.
“It’s nothing; don’t you have fans to tend to, you silly boy.” I laugh, covering up my weak spot. He doesn’t smile at me, but nods and leaves the room anyway.
“Make sure you are here when I get back; I need to talk to you.” He pops his head back in one more time before leaving, not giving me a say in the matter.
I take a deep breath. I hate him.
I hate him so much.
He is such a life-ruiner. He prances around so perfectly and in sync with his band and the world around him, while I’m stuck in his shadows, still wobbling around like a newborn fledgling getting used to its environment. I’ve been on this Earth for 15 years; I think I know how to do things correctly, but Arden always makes what I do look like a toddler’s doing.
Some people are pretty, and it’s like they were destined for it. They were meant to be pretty, and as for the rest of us, well, we get to exist on the outer edges of life. It’s like moths. They’re the same as butterflies, aren’t they? They’re just gray. They can’t help being gray, they just are. But butterflies, they’re a million different colors, yellow and emerald, and cerulean blue. They’re pretty. Who’d dare kill a butterfly? I don’t know a single soul who’d lift a finger against a butterfly. But most anybody would swat at a moth like it was nothing at all, and all because it isn’t pretty. Doesn’t seem fair, not at all.
