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Momo is a dancer.
She has danced for as long as she can remember in her short 25 years on the planet. She’s had her highs and lows through dance. And, as with any career that involves any amount of physical prowess, dancing is prone to injury.
Her day begins ordinarily enough. She wakes up at 6 am, feeds her dog, finishes her whole morning routine before heading out the new JYP building. She choreographs a famous boy group’s new comeback dance routine in the morning. In the afternoon, she’s teaching fresh-faced new trainees a short routine choreography.
An accident is something no one ever foresees. Momo takes a look at the mirror. They really should be taking a break soon. If the girls weren’t on a tight schedule, she’d give them more than a 10-minute water break between verses. The dance room is humid from the summer heat and the floor slick with sweat. Momo twirls and spins into a pose before she slips on a small puddle of sweat on the flooring. The last thing she sees is the bright lights of the overhead ceiling and hears frantic screams of the new JYP trainees as pain blooms on the back of her head.
There’s a princess by her bedside when she wakes.
Momo blinks blearily, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the bright light of the room, wondering if the Disney princess taking her vital signs will disappear as soon as her vision clears.
No, Cinderella is still sitting by her bedside.
Perhaps she’d hit her head harder than she thought.
“You’re awake,” Cinderella finally takes notice of her consciousness.
Momo nods. There are a stalk of flowers and a teddy bear on the table by the door. She can already see a stack of get-well-soon cards starting to pile up messily in the bear’s arms. The machine next to her bead gives a small hum and an occasional beep. There’s an IV line attached to her arm. It’s scratchy.
“Do you know who you are?” Momo’s attention snaps back to the princess in front of her. She really looked a lot like the princesses in the fairytales her mom used to read her to bed when she was younger. Bright blonde hair (though, obviously dyed), wide, bright eyes, clear skin, pearly white teeth. The moles on her nose, upper lip, and cheek made her look endearing and innocent.
“Hirai Momo. I’m supposed to be teaching a class at JYP,” Momo looks down at her wrist to check her watch. It isn’t there. “What time is it? Dr…? Um… Cinderella?”
The princess laughs. Its how Momo imagines princesses to laugh in her books. Light and airy. It makes Momo’s heart skip a beat. “I’m not your doctor. I’m just an intern at this hospital.” She smiles again. It brightens her whole face. “I’ll let them know you’re awake.”
Cinderella exits the room, and there’s a flurry of nurses and doctors who enters the room. Tests are ordered, and Momo is poked and prodded and asked enough questions to last her a lifetime. The consultant in charge clears her for any immediate danger but keeps her overnight for observation. That night Momo dreams about a pretty girl with bright eyes and a beautiful smile.
Momo doesn’t see Cinderella again for during the rest of her stay in the hospital.
Momo goes through life in the same manner as before her hospitalization. She wakes, feeds her dog, goes through her morning routine, and works. Rinse and repeat. The sun rises each new day. The hot summer sun fades into the cool of Autumn. For the most part, she doesn’t think about Cinderella. There was no reason for her too. She’s known Cinderella for a whole five minutes before the girl walked out of her life.
But sometimes, she sees her in the corner of her eyes. She’ll take a glance. It isn’t Cinderella. Sometimes she’ll hear her laugh in the halls of JYP before realizing it isn’t the same pitch, nor is it as light and sweet as Cinderella’s giggles.
Momo is resigned to the fact that she will probably never meet Cinderella again.
(Not unless she manages to somehow land herself into the hospital for whatever reason, but she’s not that desperate. She isn’t some sort of weird stalker.)
She walks into a coffee-shop to get out of the cool breeze. It is late in the year, around the time where the crisp autumn air turns into the cold bite of winter. The barista smiles at her as she browses through the pastries and orders a brownie and a vanilla latte.
“One pumpkin-spiced latte for Mina!”
Momo looks up in time to see Cinderella reach for her coffee. She’s out of her dress and into a brown coat. Still, with her posture and natural grace, she moved like a real-life princess.
“Cinderella?”
Mina is startled by the name. It takes a moment before her eyes register recognition, “You… Ms Hirai, right?” She waits for Momo’s confirmation. “I’m glad to see you’re out of the hospital. How are you?”
“Better. I think,” Momo says. Then she grins, “So you aren’t a princess then?”
Mina laughs, “No, I’m not. We dress up as characters sometimes for the pediatrics patients. They like us more when we’re in costume.”
“Are you saying I’m a child?” Momo pretends to sound aghast. Real panic settles in Mina’s eyes.
“No! Of course not! Its—” Mina finally catches on the teasing glint in Momo’s eyes. “Very funny.”
“It really was.”
“Hmmm. For you, maybe,” Mina huffs indignantly. A pager beeps in Mina’s pocket. “Oh! I’m late!”
“It was good to see you, Ms Hirai,” Mina looks at her apologetically. “I need to—”
“You’re pretty,” Momo blurts out. Wait. She wasn’t supposed to say that out loud.
“I—thank you?”
Another beep echoes out of Mina’s pocket.
“This is probably a long shot, but do you want to go on a date sometime? Maybe coffee?” The words come rushing out of Momo’s mouth. She wasn’t going to let Mina walk out and disappear without a trace again.
The pager beeps incessantly. Mina watches her, mouth slightly agape.
“Um, yeah sure,” Mina she takes out a pen and writes her number on a napkin before handing it to Momo. “I really have to go now, excuse me.”
And Mina bolts out of the café and Momo stares at her retreating figure as Cinderella once again disappeared into the night.
Momo stares at the scribbled number on the napkin. Mina’s writing was surprisingly elegant for an aspiring doctor. Momo tucks the number into her pocket for safekeeping.
A phone number is definitely much handier than a glass slipper.