Like other little girls (and, yes, once upon a time, she'd been a little girl), she'd dreamed of glamour and fame, of possessing otherworldly beauty, of parties where she was the center of attention, of men who vied for her attention, of romances... of love. She could have any man she wanted—and she would—but then one day everything would change. She'd meet a man, a wonderful man, one who wasn't like the others, who wasn't part of what she would now realize was her superficial world. He'd woo her with sincerity and innocent charm, through effortlessly being his somewhat shy but passionate self. Like star-crossed lovers, he'd teach her to bridge the gap between their worlds, to cross over into reality, to live. He's show her how to love. Then he would marry her and they'd live happily ever after.
Like other little girls, she wanted to be an actress, the heroine in her own perfect fairytale.
She'd never be that heroine. She wasn't for the stage, life would teach her. That place didn't hold all the promises she thought it did. That place could never capture her heart, her passion, her dedication.
Actually, she didn't like acting.
She didn't like putting on the costumes, molding her features into the mask of a new persona, saying the flowery lines, making the grandiose gestures. She didn't like standing in the spotlight on an empty stage, addressing faceless figures in the crowd, living lives that never reflected her own. She didn't like losing herself in a fantasy; she didn't like being continually disappointed when she returned to her reality.
She didn't like not liking herself.
So she had to stop pretending to be someone else.
Had to stop putting on the costumes, had to stop schooling her features, had to stop saying the things she didn't mean, had to stop making the gestures that didn't truly express her desires, had to stop making confessions that no one would hear, had to stop living in dreams.
She had to be honest with her world.
So why is she still acting?