At the corner of the booth, wiping away mascara in front of a cascading mountain of makeup, sat the most intriguing woman I had ever met. Rosaline was sharp, bold, and charismatic. Her remarkable ability to say the most insanely inappropriate things at the most awkward moments earned her title as my second skin.Before I stood to lose all my courage, I cleared my throat to ask the question that had been burning in the back of my mind ever since the spotlight shifted onto Juliet.
“Are you happy being denied in the tale that was rightfully meant to have your name in bold?”
Her eyes gleamed knowingly, as if picking up on the words I dared not think for fear of them coming true.Can anyone be happy as a ‘Rosaline’? Can you be happy as the woman who almost got it all?I knew that feeling all too well: almost having the boy, almost having the spotlight in your own rightful story. The feeling hit home. They say I am witty and smart. They tell me what they tell her, that we are the suns. Yet why does the story still have Juliet in bold? Why is it still Juliet?I bet she despises the silent tirade, having the audience look at her pitiful plight and wonder why she wasn't enough.
“But my name isn't Juliet. I am Rosalind, a heartbroken but proud woman.”
I looked dumbfoundedly into her content smile. Suddenly, I was no longer staring at a weeping figure cursed to be marred with tears of sorrow. A sorrow she no longer had since she stopped trying for a different name tag.This commanding force of a woman refused to bend for the story that all had deemed was her life, tragically wrenched from her hands.Rosaline knew this wasn't her show. ‘Rosaline’ was up next.Without warning, she gets to her feet.
“Must I try and wait to be the ‘Juliet’ for someone who isn't my Romeo? Forgotten or not, the story must go on, and mine just happened to be pressed late. Alas, I must go for my show, now now,we can't have Dario waiting.”
She winked as I grinned through the realisation that I am a Rosaline(deff always late)and a proud one.
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