Whenever she got sad, there was 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲.
And on the other hand, whenever he got sad, there was 𝐩𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫.
Until they discovered something that only required both of them in the same room -- nothing else.
𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐧, 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲 �...
My skin tingled from tips of grass as I took slow steps, feeling the moisture hug my feet whenever they touched the soil.
I was wrapped by a thin layer of mist that spread for miles and miles of land, leaving nothing but a sea of grey for me to see.
It felt chilly; the sun wasn't strong enough to pass through the thick clouds—let alone provide warmth on such a gloomy day.
The earth absorbed water from the fog, so tiny amounts of it flowed out as each of my feet sunk in to take a step. I started to get cold.
I kept walking and walking, like I had a destination and I knew the route even if my eyes were closed.
I basked in the coldness as my legs took me somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I didn't know the exact location if you'd ask me to say it out loud—but ask me to bring you there and we'd have no trouble.
Finally, I stopped. The fog was moving, clearing up the path before me.
Roses.
Thousands and thousands of red roses planted on miles of land.
I've always wanted to handpick one for myself. Roses are my favorite.
Very pleasing to look at—sophisticated and reserved.
Everyone else would pick it for me, throw it on a bouquet and add unnecessary garlands. They made sure I got the exact one I wanted without exerting any effort.
They told me if I picked it up for myself, I would get hurt.
I didn't listen.
A stinging sensation spread across my left arm, and I had only realized once I looked at it.
I was gripping a freshly-picked rose, its sharp thorns sinking into my palm. But the rose was beautiful—I could understand why I risked such excruciating pain to have it in my possession.
I brought it closer to my face, attempting to take a whiff of the flower. But something kept dripping; blood.
As crimson as the rose petals, seeping out of my palm as the thorns dug deeper.
