Justin never knew what it was like to be real. Not just real, but incredibly normal. He was always this great, beefy guy whose destitute of popularity was overwhelming. Even in grade school he was worshiped and adored. At times I envied him and at times I cried for him. The life he held now was so beautiful and lovely on the outside and so terribly disgusting on the inside. Yet, he withstood everyday with a smile, sometimes genuine, sometimes fake. But always smiling. And I detested him greatly for that. I'd always tell him, "Justin, you don't have to smile anymore. Sometimes it's not all sunshine and rainbows."

And he would never answer back. Just smile, nod, and walk away.

After awhile of the same old thing. I became increasingly worried of him. He wasn't the same as he used to be, he wasn't the same old Justin who would laugh and cry with me in the hard times and the good. He was just this smiling machine, with a slight maniacal laugh. And I couldn't lie and say I wasn't scared. In fact, I wouldn't doubt that he too was scared at what he'd become; some drug injecting, bottle sucking, whore.

Oh, but he was so good. So good at laughing it off and smiling at all the adoring faces who dreamt of him at night. And for that, I never forgave him. I never forgave him for steering people in the wrong direction with his smile, wink, and nod. Even me. Even me.

But he never became violent and angry. And I think, I think that was the most frightening thing. He showed no real interest. It was as if there was some line of realism and something on a whole new level, a level filled with facades and threatening laughter. And I wouldn't lie and say that Justin had not been there the whole time. He never did things from the heart, just from the smile, wink, and nod. His eyes were glazed, but nonetheless on some happy-go-lucky mode. His smile was flawless, not too toothy and never a flinch or a twitch in any way. His facial expression was a cross between high school football star and shy, outspoken new kid. It never faltered and held a balance of kindness and haughtiness.

It was all such a wonderful facade. And no one even knew about the masquerade ball he'd been playing his role in. And when I fell in love with him, I wasn't quite sure of which side of him I had loved, the side where the realism was surely fading, or the side with the costumes and lush scarves.

It had all left me so behind in what I thought I felt and what I really did feel. My sense of emotion and realism had begun to become questioned and I didn't even know it. I didn't know what kind of sick, twisted love it was, but I was sure it was buried there with real tears and feather boas.