"You said, no you sang, you sang that everything was gonna be alright. You said that we'll be alright, Harry. But did you mean that?"
Where Belle Olivia Granger encounters five young boys who happen to be in the biggest boyband on the planet, and sh...
The carpet is mostly empty now except for the remnants of Zendaya's team as they follow after her into the museum, snatching the shoe she expertly left on the steps as part of her performance as Cinderella.
While I have nothing of the sort planned and spinning around in my extravagant dress won't produce flames like Katniss Everdeen, I'm still hoping to impress with the beautiful work of Ziad Nakad gracing my body.
The farther up the dress one's eyes travel, diamonds and jewels of cerulean and crystal clear swirl together, fitting around my waist like a glove. Even more sparkles shimmer against my skin as they swim across my chest, shining so bright, that I feel like a walking disco ball. The sleeves resemble two fluttering butterfly wings, even more so than the skirt that puffs out around me. Every time I so much as move my arms, they flare out and appear to soar, threatening to lift me off into the sky if such things were possible.
Our world hasn't morphed into a dystopian novel just yet...
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However, the effect of all the glitter and extravagant blue coloring is enough to catch the eye of one photographer crouched behind a wall of pink flowers, leading to the other hundreds of people with cameras to whip in my direction as soon as I step foot in front of them. Lights blind me, but not a single one is more blinding than me.
If the photographers and I formed a universe, I would be the brightest star- the one all the others attract to and orbit around.
I can faintly hear voices of people on the sidelines of the bright pink carpet that ascends the legendary staircase, the very one that I've spent my childhood admiring as the stars of my generation walked upon it in outlandish fashion. Those voices all speak admiringly of my look, talking hurriedly at the news cameras that record them.
Swinging my braid over my shoulder so that the dark locks sway down around the small of my back, I brace my hands upon my hips, sequins poking into my palms. I give the cameras a soft, almost innocent expression, plump glossy lips set firmly into the smallest of grins. My eyelids are dusted with a barely there gold shade and lined with a faint powder blue that wings out. Dark mascara thickens my lashes, more length added to the outer corners for a more flirty, winged look.
A white teethed smile widens on my face as I spin around, gown flowing out around me with ease thanks to the light fabric. This sends the photographers into a craze, shouting at me to turn this way and that. I speak out my thanks you's to all of the kind people praising my beauty, only adding to the swelling of my heart.
At one point, when I realize the reason I feel so giddy is because I'm finally living out my life long dream of falling into a fantasy world where I'm a fairy princess frolicking through the flower fields, I believe the rapidly beating organ could burst.
Walking effortlessly down the carpet and marveling selfishly at how far I've come in this strange world of fame and celebrities, I find myself almost not wanting the journey down the Met Gala red carpet to be over. I don't want this fantastical feeling to end.
