You love her. But sometimes you wish you didn’t.
As you make your way slowly through the crowd, eyes clamped shut and head bowed, you can’t help but think about how much easier it would be, if only you didn’t. You wouldn’t be here, then, stumbling blindly through the dark, too afraid to let yourself see – to let in those horrible flashing lights in and that endless sea of ponies. You can hear them all around you, droning voices and whispered words assaulting you from all sides, pressing in on you, hammering into your mind and leaving no room for you in it. If you didn’t love her, you could be at home. Maybe you’d be tucked up in bed, hugging the soft warmth of your blankets and letting them wrap you up in your own little world. Or maybe you’d be outside, in your garden, listening to the gentle trill of birdsong.
You hate her. You hate all of them. The thought flashes through your mind and you feel your lips twist into a scowl in the instant before it vanishes, buried beneath a fresh wave of guilt. It’s not true, of course; it can’t be true – they’re good ponies, and they’ve done nothing wrong. It’s not their fault that they’re not afraid to look each other in the eye, or laugh together, or dance. It’s not their fault they’re braver than you. You can’t hate them. You don’t hate them – that was a terrible thing to think, and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying. Sometimes, you’re a bad pony. Maybe most of the time. After all, only a terrible pony would think such terrible things, and you’ve found yourself doing it more and more lately.
You’re shaking. You don’t know when you started, but you know you can’t stop – with each step you take your heart beats a little faster and your legs become more and more unsteady. Far away, somepony laughs, cold and harsh and mocking, and you know instantly that it’s you they’re laughing at, even as you know that that can’t possibly be true. Tears sting at your eyes, and you choke back a sob that escapes anyway as a low whine. You shouldn’t be here. You should be at home, happy and safe and stewing in your anger and waiting for an apology that will never come. That you don’t deserve.
The look on her face when you started screaming flashes into your mind again, and your knees buckle beneath you – as you stumble and catch yourself, your eyes snap open and you find yourself staring into an unending sea of bodies. Distantly, you are aware that you can’t move. The sounds around you blend together until all you can hear is the sound of your heart trying to force it’s way out of your chest. But you have to keep going. You have to see her, to hold her, to say those words. Again.
Parties aren’t stupid. She isn’t stupid. Or selfish, or annoying, or… or any of the horrible things you called her. You don’t remember them all. You never do. But you remember her face, and you remember how desperately you wanted to stop when all you could do was keep screaming. All she had wanted was for you to go with her. Like you had promised you would. Like you had pretended you wanted to, so that she wouldn’t be disappointed in you. She should have known better, of course – should have known that her paradise was, in a lot of ways, your worst nightmare. But you should have known too; she is who she is, and there are some things she will never be able to understand about you.
At least she tries. Unlike you. Sight and sound snap back into focus, and you force yourself forward one step, and then another. And another.
You can see her now, dancing in the centre of the crowd with a smile on her face and carefully hidden tears hiding in her eyes. She’s beautiful as she sways back and forth, never stopping for a moment. It’s as though she’s part of the music, and the crowd is an extension of her, moving not to the music but to the rhythm that is Pinkie Pie. Your rhythm. And then her eyes finally meet yours, and her smile becomes so wide it must be agony, and suddenly none of it matters.
Your heart skips a beat, and you find yourself grinning back as the droning of the crowd fades to a low hum, and your body lightens. You’re not quite sure how you ended up in her arms, but you know you never want to leave. As you open your mouth to whisper those words, only to have them stolen with a kiss, you know beyond doubt that you don’t deserve her. But she wants you anyway, and maybe, for now, that’s enough.