Here's to the girls who find Bad Guys more appealing than Good Guys.
In the vibrant world of an Arts and Literature College, Emily dances on the brink of rebellion. A fiery spirit, her life intertwines with the enigmatic bad boy, Alex, in a whirlwin...
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Jessica's home, the place I have been living in for one and a half years, exudes an old-fashioned creative chaos, where every nook and cranny bearing witness to her unapologetically unconventional personality. From the vivid artwork adorning the walls to the assortment of offbeat decorations, her space felt like a vibrant rebellion against the mundane.
There were antique treasures everywhere, like old books and delicate flowers in vintage vases. The walls had old paintings that told stories, making the whole place feel artistic and special. It wasn't just a house; it was a comforting sanctuary made with love and care, with warm colors and a mix of different furnishings that made you feel right at home.
Even though this house had been closed up for a long time, Jess worked hard to bring it back to life for us to live in. She was the one who came up with the idea and made it happen. She cared about keeping the old feel of the place, and you could see it in every piece she picked out. She wanted to make sure the history of the house stayed alive.
She really loved this house. It was where her parents used to live, and she never thought about changing how it looked. The old-fashioned style wasn't just for looks; it was her way of showing love for her mom and dad. When she was in the house, it felt like her parents were still there, hugging her and being with her, like a warm memory that never faded away.
Amidst this intriguing chaos, I found myself nestled on a well-worn sofa, immersed in the pages of that crime novel. Nearby, Jessica orchestrated the preparations for our impending celebration with meticulous care, arranging beer bottles and cans in a careful order that somehow seemed perfectly suited to her unique style.
She was busy mumbling something to herself, it's all about the shitty things she had done today. She always speaks out which she thinks will irritate her mind if she wouldn't talk about it.
The doorbell's unexpected chime pierced through the eclectic ambiance of our environment, stirring me from my literary reverie. The uncomforting look was clearly visible on my face, as the identity of our visitor required no guesswork.
With measured grace, I abandoned the comforting embrace of the sofa and ventured toward the door, swinging it open to reveal the expected man. He was a middle-aged man, wearing a warming smile on his lips.
In his hands, he cradled a modestly sized parcel, wrapped in nondescript brown paper, and an impressive bouquet of white roses. The bouquet was a work of art, each pristine rose a symbol of purity and reconciliation. The parcel, though simple in appearance, was Pandora's box - its contents unknown, its potential to either mend or exacerbate wounds yet to be revealed.
I immediately recognized him, he was none other than one of my dad's assistants, who was working for him. He visits every year on my birthday, since my dad left us, with the same brown colored paper box and a bouquet of white roses. He is a constant reminder of that man, whom I think was better if he wasn't my dad.
