Pastel Dreams || editing

eighteen - white lilies

"Are we going to stay here all day?" I murmured against his shoulder, as he fiddled with my hair, lost in thought.

I wondered what he was thinking.

"Do you want to?" His tone was teasing, playful.

"No," I decided, detangling myself from him. "We should do something."

"Like what?" He wanted to know, ever inquisitive, as he leaned back against my pillow, arms raised over his head.

He looked exquisite, effortlessly so, but I didn't say that. Instead, I closed my eyes, willing those thoughts to go away.

"Something, for... Daphne," I swallowed with difficulty.

"What do you have in mind?" He asked, eyebrows raised.

Lucca was patient, waiting until I got the words out, one step at the time. His phone vibrated against the pocket of his jeans but he ignored it, focusing his gaze on me.

I shrugged.

"Didn't you have to be in Los Angeles?" I asked, stretching my toes and sighing in relief when they cracked.

"I did, but this is more important."

"Lucca, your work is more important. That's your job. I'm fine," I faced him in all seriousness.

"I know that. That's why I was never planning to go for long, and took the day off. Daphne was important to me, too."

There was a sincere look in his eyes, and he too, seemed to be weighed down by the sadness of today's events. I couldn't find the strength to argue with that, so I simply settled for his words.

"Okay," I mumbled, lying back down unceremoniously.

After a few moments of silence, Lucca turned on his side, facing me.

"A list," he proposed.

"A list?"

"A list," he confirmed. "Let me get some paper."

He walked out and I stood up on wobbly legs. I headed to the bathroom, nearly jumping at the sight of my reflection.

My eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and my skin wasn't smooth like it usually was. Instead, I was graced with a few pimples on the side of my forehead, and groaned out loud. My hair was sticking in every possible direction, all tangled up.

Mortified, I tied it up and away from my face. I exfoliated my face before applying a cleanser, and then headed in the shower. Staring at the mirror, I pouted at my reflection.

A knock startled me.

"Camellia?"

"Yup," I answered, drying the ends of my hair. I liked it like this, too, soft and coiled.

"Are you almost done?"

"Uh," I looked at the mirror to the door, to the mirror again. "Not exactly."

He chuckled lightly. "I'll meet you in the living room in, let's say, fifteen minutes."

I agreed, and continued working the tangles and knots until my head of hair had been worked into two practically immaculate braids.

I lightly concealed my face, swabbing on a nude shade of lipstick. It was a struggle to put on black skinny jeans, but I managed to fit into them, slipped on a t-shirt, a black cable knit sweater, and some black high top vans.

He too was dressed head to toe in black, and I was taken aback for a second, before wondering if he did it on purpose. His back was turned to me, and his strands looked wet, his phone raised to his ear.