She is so beautiful.

It's an effortless sort of beauty, what she has. She merely has to breathe—not even; I don't doubt she'd be just as beautiful, lifeless and still.

She has a spark. It animates her, fills her being until it can take no more, spilling outwards to everything she touches, every person she speaks to. She is innocence, and beauty, and everything anyone could ever hope for in a friend.

In a love.

And now, I can't stand to watch her deteriorate. She's fraying at the edges, and all I want to do is comfort her, to tell her that everything will be all right. But I can't do that to her, to say such things, because I don't have the slightest idea how anything will turn out. I imagine it is terrible, being so violently pulled in two directions.

Three directions.

I don't say anything when she cries to me, when she speaks of them. I am a little jealous, frustrated, and upset on her behalf. But when she leans against me, sometimes falling asleep from the sheer exhaustion of everything, her breath in my ear—I can't help but feel a little smug, and I mock them, the two of them, with my mind.

It is all I can do.

When I am alone, I cry. Or I dance. Mostly both. I mourn myself to the vaulted golden ceiling, the coffered expanse of star and moonlight, the stage creaking beneath my feet, the rooftops not giving way, and I dance, and I cry. My movements ache, my vision is blurry, but I am silent, excepting the occasional sob, a gasp for air. I have nothing to say, yet everything at once. It hurts too much.

I think I love you.