#bakerella

It’s been years and the people have forgotten that there was once a princess who went by the name of Cinderella. And she is glad for it, because the woman working at the bakery is not the same person as the girl who wore that golden dress and dreamed of princes and happily ever afters. 

There is always flour in her hair these days, and on her clothes, and she won’t hear of anyone wiping it off. Her precious boy - who’s not really hers - always tries, because apparently she’s prettier when she’s clean, but she just laughs and tickles him until he’s distracted. 

She loves that boy. She’s also come to care for his father, and that’s the problem. 

The Baker, her dearest friend, somehow still sees a princess when he looks at her, and she can’t seem to make him see that the brief period in which she mattered was by no means a defining period in her life. She is perfectly fine fading away into obscurity in the bakery near the edge of the woods. 

“You’ve got something,” he points at her cheeks. 

“Where?” she pretends to be clueless. 

Her heart pounds when his rough fingers wipe off the flour. She watches and she waits patiently.