"Just love her... Love will always win."
Love is patient and kind. Love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong but rejoices in the...
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SHE SIPS the dark liquid, looking around at the café—anywhere but Collins' face— and she feels the strong taste of dirt on her tongue. She only does this when she's trying to force her thoughts from the immaterial emotions to the material physical feelings.
The café is small but it's not entirely packed at this time of the day —the afternoon. Most people come, get their coffee and then they proceed to attend to their endeavors. A fully black clad guy enters, looking around the small space. He exudes a graceful and jubilant demeanor. It is almost as if the whole café holds its breath upon his entrance.
He catches sight of someone he must know and a smile spreads on his handsome face —no, handsome is an understatement. Handsome does not begin to explain how his smile sets the mood back in the café causing the chatter to resume as if it never stopped. Handsome does not begin to touch the smile that is now splayed on his face, revealing white teeth with slightly elongated canines, as he walks to the very back of the café.
Hope does not follow his movement the moment he passes her table but she locks his image in her mind. The guy has the kind of face that easily prompts you to paint and Hope smiles a little, when she feels the familiar twitch of her fingers, trying to reach for an imaginary brush.
The guy must be a regular here because the waitress follows after him immediately, balancing a full tray of an order which Hope did not see the guy placing.
She smiles to herself, with no particular thought in her mind.
This moment must be the closest to peaceful and thoughtless she has felt in a long, long time. If only she could place a pause on this moment, counting the seconds as hours and the hours as days, then she'd live in this bubble for as long as humanly possible. Sadly, wishes are not horses and Hope, a beggar of peace, cannot ride.
What she hates though, is that she's experiencing this moment with Collins seated across her, although they have not said a word to each other since they arrived.
They must look like two strangers doing nothing but sharing a table in a bohemian themed café.
That is what they are though, isn't it? Strangers.
His presence here only continues to irk her by the minute but she suppresses it. Does she really hate Collins?
The fact that he has a twin should be a turn around. But is it though? She still feels the same: Chaotic.
She recalls Lawrence's menacing eyes, his cold smile and his firm grip. A small shudder rips through her and she quickly sips the espresso, the hot liquid trailing down her throat into her insides, warming them in the process.
Why does she have to think about him now? Why can't she just appreciate the rays of the sun that penetrate through the rims in the windows, splaying unidentifiable patterns in the café and intersecting in midair?
