"They want me to marry."
"What's so bad about that?"
"And you're supposed to be bright, Gilbert?"
彡
In which a damsel wishes to save herself from her own distress, the 'prince'.
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"I cannot believe you went against me behind my back, Heather." her mother scream whispered in pure frustration before leaving her room, nearly slamming the door in anger.
Before she could even lock the door, Emma comes in, her curls tied up neatly into a bun. "I think it was a pretty clever move." she comments, seeing to it that her sister was okay after another scolding.
Earlier in the day, after their father finished his errands at school, Heather catches a glimpse of her kindred spirit — dearest Frankie. "Father, you think I could go back to school now? I'd really want to go back."
She knew very well he would agree to her wishes, not only did he not see a flaw in the request but she knew her father's weaknesses, which a weakness or a flaw for her mother's ultimatum. The deal was off.
"Well, I'd say it's her and her belief's fault. She chose that path for herself, following the footsteps of a man." She says proudly tucking herself in and blowing out the candle. The room was consumed by darkness and Emma bids 'goodnight'.
—
"Frankie!" she squeals, forgetting all she was taught for a brief moment as she runs towards the boy, running from the opposite direction. Their bodies collide just in front of the tiny cabin covered in layers of snow.
I just need a few minutes, she cried in her head as she wrapped her arms around the boy, who did the same. As he had a taller frame, he leans his head onto hers, providing warmth from the winter blow.
"It felt like forever." She whimpered, clutching her hands onto the thick cloth of his coat and he doesn't complain. "I thought I'd never see you again, H." he whispers, striking her with a hint of sadness, which pulls her back to reality.
She gently detaches from the boy, giving him an odd feeling of being lost but brushes it off. The smile on her frail porcelain face pushed the thoughts away.
"Come on. I have to be at school early." She says, shifting the from the unsaid topic that she knew was about to brought up. She didn't like having to push him away either.
"Frankie, are you not going to read a poem today?"
"Oh, okay. Hold on," he pulls out his pocket book. "I— um, I wrote this one actually — because uh— let me just read it."
"The Moon's Sun by Frankie Cardinal." they chuckle softly at this.
"As time is itself, uncertain and undefined Coming upon the gentle and peaceful cot A chase, unaware so now behind What can I give to the sun if she's all I've got?
Winter came upon the valley Not caring and in such a selfish hurry No one aflutter, jittery or queazy For he too had light that brought life to the evening
Not as bright as she but they did not see The difference it would have been, If he were beside his she The beauty of a soft and graceful violin.
The further she became, the less he saw The faster she faded, the dimmer he shined. How the moon knew what they did not About his darling—"
"What happened?" She pauses as he does. A frown carved his face but then again he brushes it away to look at her with a forced grin. "I haven't finished it yet."
It was lie. Probably the first or so lie he ever told her. He knew how the poem ended. He knew how the stanza ended and what the rest of it said but he chose that it was too early for it.
"Oh," she takes in an audible slow deep breath, "I think it's very lovely."
"Thanks."
"Although—"
"Of course. The 'but'" he taunts, earning a gentle nudge, only because she almost forgot herself from being a lady. "I was just going to say that it was kind of sad."
He nods, knowing that it really was. She notices it and gives him another gentle push. "You missed me so bad, haven't you?" She kids, making the boy blush. He swats her for this. "Well, I already admitted that." He replied defensively.
She would've replied if it weren't for the sight of the school close by. She carries her books to her chest and raises her chin 'proudly'. For Frankie, however, everything looked force and not so Heather-like.
They've molded him a familiar stranger.
"Heather, you're back." Mr. Phillips utters through his fake smile. Clearly he wasn't too pleased, having her back nor did the other girls. Nonetheless a smile pierced through the messy crowd. It was of no other than Gilbert Blythe.
"Good morning to you too, Mr. Phillips."
✩
a|n:
me to myself: I NEED TO WRITE A DECENT POEM WHAT THE FU— i can't even write for sh-
