CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

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MATTHEO RIDDLE IS YASMINE AMAROS. CALANTHA, ERISED, EPIPHANY, NICCÓLO, KASSANDRA, LANA, VASILI, AND DÀINN ARE MINE. ALL OTHERS UNLESS MENTIONED ARE JK RO*LINGS.

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T R I G G E R W A R
N I N G

Sad. just really sad i think. that's all

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─── ・ 。 ゚☆: *.☽ .* :☆゚. ───

F O R T Y F I V E

THE four knocks on my door, as promised, had my eyes glued to the wood frame in an instant. I had been anticipating the pale girl's arrival since I'd first read her letter, and continued to read it again and again, my eyes tracing the loopiness of her cursive handwriting; I imagined her sitting on her bed whilst writing it, no way visualising her at a desk with her legs crossed.

No, she was the kind to sit on her bed, and not under her covers, for that was informal. Or, at least, not after she'd already made her bed, which I believed without a doubt she did every morning after waking up. No, no, she sat atop her covers, one leg draw in with the other out, while she leaned over and scribbled. She probably tickled her cheek with her feathered quill, casting dirty glances at whatever girl had been poised enough to share a dorm with her.

"Come in."

The door flung open no more than a second later, and in Lana walked, a bading smile plastered contemptuously on her cupid's bow lips. Unlike usual, she wasn't dressed in her school attire--though I was stupid for thinking she would be... it was nine at night. Instead, she wore a deep black sweater--identical to the one Vasili had worn not long ago, and paired it with black sweatpants.

"Forgive me if I smell rather... masculine," she shuddered at the last word, spitting it out like poison, shaking her head. "This is Vasili's," she ushered to her top, then shrugged. "It's comfortable, though it smells like a male's potion store."

I huffed out an exasperated laugh, feeling almost breathless as she sat beside me on my bed, which I wasn't expecting, nor prepared for. I inhaled deeply, an eye dropping to where her hand laid beside one of my own. When she shifted, bringing both of her legs onto the bed, that hand hit mine--accidentally--and I felt myself shudder, then cower farther away from her.

She noticed, and brought her eyes to me, with her eyebrows raised in silent question--as if I'd explain myself without her asking first. I would.

"Your hand was cold," I lied. "It freaked me out a bit."

She frowned, looking at her palms, which she brought onto her lap, face up. "No I'm not. You're just warm."

Now I frowned. "No, you're just cold."

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