Ellie stood motionless, looking over the ledge. She saw her reflection in the water below, and it seemed so distant, so foreign. So anonymous. It was not her. But it was something beautiful, and she longed to touch it. She wished it would dance for her; sing for her; act for her. She wanted to see herself smile; laugh; blow a kiss into the ripples. All of these, Ellie could surely do herself. But her reflection would do it all the more beautifully. There were never enough complements, never enough flowers, gifts, kisses on the cheeks, pats on the back. She needed to see for herself, that she was as wonderful as they all told her she was. She needed proof, that her life was indeed what it seemed to be. She wished she could die famous, and one day watch one of those documentary movies people make about figures in the past, and see her life played out before her. She needed proof that her life was this great; this fortunate; this amazing. She needed proof that she was real—not just another character in a play.