A/N: It's pretty much covered in the summary... But Radames didn't get to the docks in time, and Aida escaped during his wedding. Now she is sad... The lyrics are from the brilliant Elaborate Lives.

Disclaimer: I do not own Aida, or Elaborate Lives. That belongs to the writers of the book and Elton John/Tim Rice.


Too many choices tear us apart . . .

Everyday I would sit, thinking of him. I must've thought a million different things, all revolving around him. Wondering where he was, how he was, if he was happy. If he still remembered me, loved me, cared about me at all. If he sat, everyday, thinking a million different things about me, too.

I don't want to live like that . . .

My father was worried. Because I sat, and because I thought. I didn't have the energy or the will to do much else. I was thinner, and my face had turned sallow and sunken into the crevices between my bones, as if hiding from the realities that I faced every day as I sat, and as I thought. Each day I would tell myself that today was going to be the day when I'd stand instead of sit, and work instead of think, but then somehow, without my even knowing exactly how it happened, I'd be sitting and pondering and wishing that I were back there, with him. I'd be a slave again, for him. I'd work on my hands and knees as a servant to the arrogant, selfish Egyptians all my days if it meant that I could still see him, touch him, feel his skin against my skin just one more time.

Too many choices tear us apart . . .

I knew it wasn't healthy, and I knew it wasn't safe. But I was in a void; I was bleeding silently inside my mind because this whole thing back in Egypt shattered me and I cut myself on the pieces. I was just so tired of being like this, of being slow and sad and nothing. I wished that I could make myself happy again, but I wasn't that strong. And people were afraid of it. My father didn't know what to do with it, with me, and I only made him angry because he didn't understand my love for Radames. Mereb was always kind, but he was afraid of it too, just like all the people of Nubia who were so scared of whatever had so completely consumed their princess. And the worst part was that I needed them. I needed other people to distract me and give me other things to think about, but the minute they saw that coldness, that despair and hysteria and deadness seeping into my eyes, they would leave me because they couldn't comprehend what was wrong with me. From there, all I could do was sink to the floor, or at best, stumble to a chair and sit. And think.

I don't want to love like that . . .

I was alone.

It was like our love turned dark. I still loved him; I had to believe that he still loved me. But I couldn't have him, and I'd never see his face again, and that haunted me like my own shadow, following me everywhere I went and dragging me down, just waiting for the smallest bit of sunlight – any other happiness that reminded me of our sweet, sweet love – to reveal itself and overpower me.

I just want to be with you . . .

My mother used to tell me that love would conquer all, that it would find me and be enough to triumph over any obstacles in my way. It had with her and my father.

But what killed me was knowing that I could do anything, give anything, be anything, but as long as I was inside this skin, it would never, never be enough for us.