Template:Under a Paper Moon 1

'''A/N: Hey guys. Thank you so much for clicking on my story. :D'''

'''This story is for the Austin/Ally Fanfiction Summer activity thing. I forgot the actual name, sorry about that ahahah.  Just a little heads up, this story is set one year after they have graduated, so in TV terms, this would be season 6. Again, thank you so much for clicking! It's a bit long, (but hopefully not too boring!) Please tell me what you think below. I hope you guys like it and vote for it. If not, I still hope you enjoy it all the same. :)'''

'''This is in Ally's point of view, by the way. Yeah, okay.'''

'''It actually does get better after this chapter, I promise. If I make it that far anyway ahahaha.'''

'''Anyways, thanks! :D xx'''

UNDER A PAPER MOON - ch1

“Your microphone is totes state-of-the-art, Ally. It would be fab if you could perform as well!” Megan cheers, fiddling with the small wire strapped to my dress.

“It’s just... greaty-great-great.” I offer lamely, my palms clammy at my side.

The weather outside is brooding and grey – the Manhattan streets torn asunder by the harsh winter gusts. Small specks of white daintily coat the pavement, as the iconic yellow taxis’ make trails in the residue.

I sit in a small, eclectic record store. With companies such as iTunes, and forgoing habits like illegal downloading at an all time high, places like these are dying out like leaves falling from deciduous trees in fall. The homely environment is very ethereal and natural. It’s ironic, considering what we’re filming here.

“We go live in a sec, all ready?” Megan says from her chair, as correspondents from Cheetah Beat touch up her make-up.

“It’s hard to believe you’re only fourteen years old.” I smile to myself.

“I am fourteen, and I am the best!” She grins, as a camera-man waves at us hastily, directing our attention to the filming instrument.

Right, we’re starting. Okay Ally, just breathe. Everything will be okay.

“Hello everybody. I’m Megan Simms, and in this edition of our Cheetah Beat podcast we are honoured to have with us a special guest...” Megan begins, as my eyes drift towards a record on the wall.

Maybe I lied, everything is definitely not okay.

“Ally?” Megan hollers nervously, playing with her hair at an attempt to look casual. It doesn’t work.

“What?”

I watch Megan in a jaded haze, as my eyes find themselves transfixed to a certain record on the wall. My heart burns when I see the name ‘Austin Moon’ etched into it. The thumping of my heart prevents me from hearing the colloquial banter Megan offers to the feeble eyes that watch us from their computers.

Boy, that sounded creepy.

“Uh, aha. Ally, it has been a year since the incident.” Megan gestures, a sympathetic expression orchestrating her features. “Are you ready to share it with us all today?”

“I guess we have to. With your camera and all of its’ film and all.” I attempt to sound calm, which is the opposite of what I am.

“Oh Ally, you’re so hilar! But yes, it is time for you to finally break the silence – and tell us how Team Austin broke up.”

Megan post-poned broadcast for a breather. I am grateful for that, seeing as I can hardly breathe. The golden 'A' dangling from my chest is the only anchor I can find, as it's lure slowly pulls me back to reality - back to this.

I had just recounted all of the important moments of us, Team Austin, before things soured. Around the time we graduated from Marino High School. A year ago.

Honestly, it was a lifetime ago.

“Okay, are you ready for this?” Megan gently proffers, situating a hand on my knee.

“I can do this.” I blatantly lie to her, as the rain begins to hit the windows of the record store.

The green light flicks back on the camera, and I can see Megan and I mirrored in the computer placed in front of us. I look like a ghost.

“Now, tell us Ally – what happened?” Megan has her game-face on, and to be honest, it bothers me a little. She treats our tragedy like a performance, when only a moment ago she was my shoulder to cry on.

Journalists.

“Well, it’s no happy tale, unfortunately. But to share this story, I must do it on my own terms.” I begin, pulling out a progression of four envelopes from my seat. “Within these envelopes are four letters, written to one Austin Moon. I never had the courage to send them, but inside each letter details exactly what happened. Since Austin will never read them, hey, why don’t I read them and have them publically floating across the internet?” I laugh nervously, as I fold the corner of the first letter.

“It’s time.” Megan nods, as Jeff (the tech guy) gives his thumbs up in kind recognition of my struggle. If Jeff thinks I can do this, then I can.

I guess.

I take the first letter from its spot inside the envelope, and reveal the hand-written note sprawled across lavender scented paper. (They don’t stock pickle scented, so lavenders had to do.)

I purse my lips, and listen to one more beat of my aching heart. Here it is, after a year of highly-sought relinquishment. The truth will be told.

“Dear Austin,

I don’t know why I’m sending you this letter. Who knows, perhaps there will be a mailing mishap which sends this letter to an elderly piano tuner, or even a Martian on the moon. (That was a joke, by the way.)

I would like to say I miss you, albeit, I don’t think that feeling is requited. I hope it is. It’s been so long since I have heard your voice, the very same one that takes my breath away when you sing. No one has ever belonged to a microphone like you do.

But I’m not writing to you today to speak fondly of times passed. What I am doing is finding consolation for what happened to all of us... Team Austin.

I know that it’s been a year.... you know, since you left, but it’s been an enthralling year. I got a job at this big corporation that writes jingles for household products. I wrote the new Minty-Tooth toothpaste jingle. That’s right, that was me. And at only nineteen, I’m just on fire!

Not literally.

But technically the jingle was written by Angelica Mortekai, my alias. Since what happened with you and Trish and Dez was so... well, let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about now.

I never really imagined seeing you after you left Miami. My father was set to be remarried to a beautiful Ohio woman whom he met at a couponing convention. Just like my father, Julia was frugal beyond belief – which meant that she had sent me to the furthest corners of Italy to retrieve a dress from a woman who sold it for the price of my air-fare.

Porcelli, the town was called. I remember it so vividly, because of the tragic circumstances of that day. The overcast weather was only brighter in comparison to my grudging taxi driver. Across rolling hills he drove, until the small bridge connecting the town of Porcelli to the rest of civilisation came into view.

Three cars honked their horns, as the first had broken down upon the peak of the bridge. It wasn’t until powder began falling from the bridge that all the people within those four vechiles realised how old that bridge was – and how weak it had become.

The people within all four vehicles ran to the Porcelli town line, as the bridge – our only gateway to, well, anywhere, fell to pieces in a huge ravine. The chunks, and reminents of the vechiles, fell miles to the ground; The bridge, and our freedom was gone.

And as we had only escaped with our lives, the last thing I expected to see were those large chocolate eyes.

Your eyes.”