the rain is relentless.

and cinderella ain't got shit with her.

almond cherry lipstick. winged eyeliner. short thrift store dresses. cigarettes. gin. bills. rent. hell. to monday night expresso martinis. designer shades. chanel lip gloss. manolo blahniks. penthouses. nirvana. it's a whole north story inside a south story. a plot twist she never thought she would ever experienced.

and goddamn it got her cursing the imaginary clock that transformed her carriage into pumpkin, and she tries to hold on to that ring that proves that she's a wife— your wife— throughout that one hell of a night flipping new york upside down just to find you— to fix this, to keep this and protect what we have.

but the tragedy of this story lies on the unfortunate fact that she wants to live in that fantasy. and it hurts screaming about our love she knows isn't real. everybody knows. but here she was, clinging to this desperate hope that if she say it enough times, maybe it would come true— like if she commits to the lie hard enough, it will turn into something real.

it's a betrayal. but betrayal suggests that those were real to begin with— and there wasn't.

soaked, her clothes clinging to her skin, hair plastered to her face; ani breathes like she just ran a marathon, her fists clenched at her sides. but she doesn't care. not when you're walking away from her.

"talk to me." her voice is sharp, slicing through the downpour, but there was something else underneath. something raw, something cracking that made her nose scrunch a little.

throwing her hands back to push igor back away so she could go after you before you get on that damn jet, water flinging from her fingertips— her eyes flashes something dangerous curling at the edges. anger. hurt. "please!"