You hold court like a monarch among his flock of nobles, perched on the edge of the lunch table or lounged back against the bleachers with a bevy of giggling sycophants clustered all around. Even the sunlight seems eager to grace your carved features, the breeze to gently toss your glossy hair so it falls just so. They think this is what you value: influence, attention, adoration. They think this is what you want, to wield your charisma like a flame that warms the favored and scorches the fallen. 

Yet you could not care less about the lackeys who flirt and flutter like moths in your light. When you quirk your lips at a funny quip, or throw your fine neck back to laugh at a cutting remark, your eyes dart across the room to see if a certain dark gaze lingers on you. Always you seek him out, posing your body so he might keep you in his sights, ensuring your best angle faces him at all times. You are the sun, drawing everyone around you into your orbit, but you care only for this one solitary moon who seems forever out of your reach. 


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