She was the girl who was afraid of love. Terrified of it. It isn't permanent, she believed, it leaves you and it leaves you broken.
He was the boy who desperately needed it. Love--the only thing that could've rooted him to this world.
Ophelia and...
"when you see it, think of me. And I'll think of you."
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I fell asleep in Alastair’s car. Only for a few minutes though.
When I woke up, still in a groggy state, the first thing I felt was the side of my head pressed against the cool window. Then I felt the warmth around me and I figured it was the car’s heater. I didn’t feel as cold as I had before.
My gaze then fell down to my injured hand. There were tiny droplets of blood soaking up into the tissues that were still wrapped around my hand. I pushed my bangs out of my eyes, looking over at Alastair.
He was still driving, but he didn't look as furious as he did when we both had gotten into the car.
My eyes trailed down to his hand that gripped the steering wheel, at the freshly bruised knuckles. He punched Noah, I reminded myself. I wasn't sure if that made me happy or sad. It shouldn’t make me happy. It shouldn’t when it had been my fault. I had been the one who'd kissed Noah. I had been the one to pull him up into that room tonight--or at least that’s what he had told me.
I led him on. It wasn’t his fault. It was all my fault.
“We’re almost there.” Alastair glanced at me. I saw his frown softening when his eyes found mine.
I would’ve recognised the street if I wasn't so tired. And my head still seemed to be spinning a little. “Where?” I asked. My voice, I grimaced. It sounded so hoarse.
“The studio,” he replied.
Not my house. Maybe that was for the best. I didn't know how badly it would escalate if he left me on my own right now. I was painfully aware of being such a burden. Did Alastair think I was a burden?
When Alastair stopped the car somewhere behind the familiar studio, I opened my door after he opened his, and nearly stumbled out. I had closed it by the time he stepped beside me, gazing down at my hand.
Maybe he wanted to hold my hand. I wouldn't really know since I shifted away from him, stepping towards the closed studio doors.
“Is Andrea here?” I asked.
I felt him staring at me from behind before he came alongside me, pulling out a pair of keys to open the wooden doors. The back entrance to the studio.
“No.” He replied. “She doesn't live here.”
“How do you...How did you find this place?” I asked, staring at him this time.
He pushed one door and held it open for me. “Andrea was one of my father’s closest clients. My aunt too. She’s...a little like family.”
I blinked in surprise before nodding. I didn’t step towards the doors though. He was talking about his family. I remembered the distraught look on his aunt’s face, the day they'd found the dead body. His dead body.
