Categories > Original > Drama > Goodbyes Are Never Good.
Backstage Is Where the True Show Is
0 reviewsThe author is confronted by his 'fan' backstage! What will be admitted? What will be figured out? Will someone leave heartbroken?! AH, THE QUESTIONS.
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Backstage, a producer was chatting him up about something the author was not paying the closest attention to. He managed to nod at the right moments but ultimately refused the offer and told the producer the favorite line of all celebrities: "You'll have to run it by my people."
The producer nodded, told him to have a good day, and then walked off thinking what a douche the newest author on the block was. That was when she walked up to him from behind and spoke.
"'A fairy tale gone wrong.' I really loved that line," she said quietly.
He jumped, surprised, and spun around to see his fan. His fan, still hidden under her multiple layers of clothes and therefore her true identity was still a safely kept secret, saw the man she loved. The man she gave up. Did she do the right thing? She did the right thing, she told herself. Wait. . . did she? Ah, what does not kill you makes you stronger, but the questions remain until you can't take it anymore.
"Oh, hello there, Janett," he called her by the fake name she went by on-stage. He wasn't aware it was a fake. He felt himself smiling but he was unsure as to why. "That line just came to me, in the moment type of thing, you know? I even surprised myself when I wrote it."
She giggled, a sound that was familiar to one he heard many times, years ago. But how was that possible? He just met this girl today. "You're brilliant. I'm sure whoever left you is regretting every moment."
The truth of the line in his book about the fairy tale gone wrong is the fact that it was her line, and they both knew it. He kept her alive and close to him with his story. He had to. She fought the urge to cry and stopped all but one solitary tear from slipping down her cheek. He noticed and felt his cold heart weaken.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" He asked, genuinely concerned. He was a writer, not an actor; he was unable to pretend emotions. Whatever showed was whatever was there. The undeniable truth. He took a few steps closer and reached out his hand to gently rest it on her shoulders, a gesture that vaguely meant he's there for her.
She looked at the ground and spoke quietly, struggling with her emotions. "Your book just reminds me so much of my ex. . . as if you wrote it just for us," she whispered. "I miss him so much."
"Hey, it'll be alright," he said, hugging her, trying to comfort her. Ah, how often he did the same thing, years ago. He just did not realize it. "YOu mentioned little of the break up. . . explain it to me?"
"It was all my idea," she started, trying her best not to start sobbing on his shoulder, thinking at the same time how wrong it is to lie to him like this. . . but at the same time enjoying his dearly missed embrace. She hated herself for it at the same time she was enjoying herself. "He was totally unaware. . . I wonder to this day whether I ultimately did the right thing, but we've done so much good apart since then, stuff impossible to have accomplished together. I still cry myself to sleep at least three times a week. Everything reminds me of him. But I can't go back, you see?"
He felt chilled to his core as she opened her heart up to him. The unsettling feeling when one gets when they read a nasty shock in their favorite book, or see an emotional scene in their favorite movie, or hear their favorite quote. The ice that travels within their very veins for those few moments - the feeling that reminds us the best that we're alive. How similar the story is. He wondered whether his lost love felt the same, oblivious to the fact he was holding her. Who else shared his pain? How deeply he could sympathise with her ex, a person he never met.
"Have you explained to him how you've felt? Where you're coming from?"
"I've only talked to him once since the fracture," she admitted. "He would not believe me, anyway. You know that. You're in his shoes. You wouldn't believe it if your ex admitted she still thinks about you, would you? That she wants you back but realizes she can't have you back?" A few more slient tears landed upon the polished wooden floor.
The author - Matt - always had a problem with emotions. He either felt them too strongly or was unaware they were there at all. He felt connected to his fan, he could not deny that, and he felt his own tears ready to start crying.
"I can't say that I would. I still wonder whether she loved me at all," he admitted, his voice thick. Ah, the drama. The emotions. Flowing about like a tornado heading towards a fragile little community that's still recovering from the last one.
"In that case, you're a smart man, but also an idiot," she told him, attempting humor. "She loves you. Undoubtably. Don't doubt yourself."
He broke off the embrace, gently curled his right hand under her chin and raised it to look up at him. Her make-up was running. A shade of blue his ex hated. He remembered that after three years. The small things. Ah, the horrible, small things that reminded him every day that he is alone.
"You look a lot like her. She was just as beautiful," he told her at the risk of sounding overly sentimental, if that was possible at this stage. She really did look a lot like her, didn't she?
One day soon. You may not recognize me.
No, he thought. Couldn't be.
His thoughts must have shone, because she was instantly frantic, looking down and backing away.
"I have to go," she said. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time." She started to trun and was about to walk out of his life when he called out.
"Wait! Please! One more question!" He asked, hoping she would humor him. She froze, but did not turn around. "If you happened to meet your ex on the street and he confronted you, what would you do?"
Moments of silence passed between them, neither moving, afraid to breathe. Finally she found her voice and spoke farewell: "I miss you. I love you. I never meant to hurt you. That's what I'd tell him."
And with those parting words, Sophie walked out of his life again for the second time. As her foodsteps faded into oblivion, the same oblivion that threatened to sweep John away and drown him within the tidal wave of his feelings for possibly the last time, he heard footsteps on their way towards him. He wasn't aware of them until they were upon him.
"Hey, author boy. You alright?" It was the hostess.
"You know that fan that was on your show today? Her real name is Sophie. And yes, that Sophie. She was my ex. The one the whole book is about," he sounded out of breath. It was three years ago, all over again. Why did she do this. Was she playing with him now? Was she getting off on playing with him like this?
The hostess attempted to talk to him, but he easily drained her out as he walked out of her studio into the November air. The snow that had fallen for the past three days was his heart; cold, indifferent, walked on and dirtied. The pain and suffering of the broken romantic.
The producer nodded, told him to have a good day, and then walked off thinking what a douche the newest author on the block was. That was when she walked up to him from behind and spoke.
"'A fairy tale gone wrong.' I really loved that line," she said quietly.
He jumped, surprised, and spun around to see his fan. His fan, still hidden under her multiple layers of clothes and therefore her true identity was still a safely kept secret, saw the man she loved. The man she gave up. Did she do the right thing? She did the right thing, she told herself. Wait. . . did she? Ah, what does not kill you makes you stronger, but the questions remain until you can't take it anymore.
"Oh, hello there, Janett," he called her by the fake name she went by on-stage. He wasn't aware it was a fake. He felt himself smiling but he was unsure as to why. "That line just came to me, in the moment type of thing, you know? I even surprised myself when I wrote it."
She giggled, a sound that was familiar to one he heard many times, years ago. But how was that possible? He just met this girl today. "You're brilliant. I'm sure whoever left you is regretting every moment."
The truth of the line in his book about the fairy tale gone wrong is the fact that it was her line, and they both knew it. He kept her alive and close to him with his story. He had to. She fought the urge to cry and stopped all but one solitary tear from slipping down her cheek. He noticed and felt his cold heart weaken.
"Hey, hey, what's wrong?" He asked, genuinely concerned. He was a writer, not an actor; he was unable to pretend emotions. Whatever showed was whatever was there. The undeniable truth. He took a few steps closer and reached out his hand to gently rest it on her shoulders, a gesture that vaguely meant he's there for her.
She looked at the ground and spoke quietly, struggling with her emotions. "Your book just reminds me so much of my ex. . . as if you wrote it just for us," she whispered. "I miss him so much."
"Hey, it'll be alright," he said, hugging her, trying to comfort her. Ah, how often he did the same thing, years ago. He just did not realize it. "YOu mentioned little of the break up. . . explain it to me?"
"It was all my idea," she started, trying her best not to start sobbing on his shoulder, thinking at the same time how wrong it is to lie to him like this. . . but at the same time enjoying his dearly missed embrace. She hated herself for it at the same time she was enjoying herself. "He was totally unaware. . . I wonder to this day whether I ultimately did the right thing, but we've done so much good apart since then, stuff impossible to have accomplished together. I still cry myself to sleep at least three times a week. Everything reminds me of him. But I can't go back, you see?"
He felt chilled to his core as she opened her heart up to him. The unsettling feeling when one gets when they read a nasty shock in their favorite book, or see an emotional scene in their favorite movie, or hear their favorite quote. The ice that travels within their very veins for those few moments - the feeling that reminds us the best that we're alive. How similar the story is. He wondered whether his lost love felt the same, oblivious to the fact he was holding her. Who else shared his pain? How deeply he could sympathise with her ex, a person he never met.
"Have you explained to him how you've felt? Where you're coming from?"
"I've only talked to him once since the fracture," she admitted. "He would not believe me, anyway. You know that. You're in his shoes. You wouldn't believe it if your ex admitted she still thinks about you, would you? That she wants you back but realizes she can't have you back?" A few more slient tears landed upon the polished wooden floor.
The author - Matt - always had a problem with emotions. He either felt them too strongly or was unaware they were there at all. He felt connected to his fan, he could not deny that, and he felt his own tears ready to start crying.
"I can't say that I would. I still wonder whether she loved me at all," he admitted, his voice thick. Ah, the drama. The emotions. Flowing about like a tornado heading towards a fragile little community that's still recovering from the last one.
"In that case, you're a smart man, but also an idiot," she told him, attempting humor. "She loves you. Undoubtably. Don't doubt yourself."
He broke off the embrace, gently curled his right hand under her chin and raised it to look up at him. Her make-up was running. A shade of blue his ex hated. He remembered that after three years. The small things. Ah, the horrible, small things that reminded him every day that he is alone.
"You look a lot like her. She was just as beautiful," he told her at the risk of sounding overly sentimental, if that was possible at this stage. She really did look a lot like her, didn't she?
One day soon. You may not recognize me.
No, he thought. Couldn't be.
His thoughts must have shone, because she was instantly frantic, looking down and backing away.
"I have to go," she said. "I'm sorry, I lost track of time." She started to trun and was about to walk out of his life when he called out.
"Wait! Please! One more question!" He asked, hoping she would humor him. She froze, but did not turn around. "If you happened to meet your ex on the street and he confronted you, what would you do?"
Moments of silence passed between them, neither moving, afraid to breathe. Finally she found her voice and spoke farewell: "I miss you. I love you. I never meant to hurt you. That's what I'd tell him."
And with those parting words, Sophie walked out of his life again for the second time. As her foodsteps faded into oblivion, the same oblivion that threatened to sweep John away and drown him within the tidal wave of his feelings for possibly the last time, he heard footsteps on their way towards him. He wasn't aware of them until they were upon him.
"Hey, author boy. You alright?" It was the hostess.
"You know that fan that was on your show today? Her real name is Sophie. And yes, that Sophie. She was my ex. The one the whole book is about," he sounded out of breath. It was three years ago, all over again. Why did she do this. Was she playing with him now? Was she getting off on playing with him like this?
The hostess attempted to talk to him, but he easily drained her out as he walked out of her studio into the November air. The snow that had fallen for the past three days was his heart; cold, indifferent, walked on and dirtied. The pain and suffering of the broken romantic.
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