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·° 。: ✰ : ·° 。
SHE FIDDLED WITH THE CHAIN on her neck, the fine twists bringing her comfort. Her fingers reached the pendant, tracing the spikes protruding sideways from the circle. The sun. Someone referred to her as the sun. The sun, the sun, the sun. The whispers of the simple phrase was engraved on the walls of her mind; and, not unusually, unanswered questions echoed through her head. Rosalie turned the pendant over, finding a cursive "M" at the back of it. Monet? she thought. This stalker was soberly scarring her.
After a hearty breakfast, Rosalie set off to visit Caroline. She was utterly worried about the blonde after what had happened last night. The sight of her, pale and sickly, laying on the bed was truly a worrisome view. The brunette was supposed to check on her cousin the previous night by means of a phone call, but decided against it to let Caroline rest. The Monet smiled at Fiji, who was beaming at her and happily wagging his tail. The puppy had a red collar on his neck, which was connected to an iron chain. It must be nice to be that carefree, she reflected.
It was a beautiful day, to say the least. The soft rays of the morning sun was illuminating the quiet town, streaming through the seaweed green leaves of the tall oaks. Her dark brown curls were met by the gentle breeze, ruffling it in a sluggish manner. Although the brunette was walking languidly on the sidewalk, her thoughts ran wild. Thankfully, Fiji followed the girl without her having to tug on his leash.
Rosalie, who didn't even know what the 'illness' was, still felt utterly concerned about how Caroline was feeling. The image of the blonde looking close to death kept flashing in her mind. She shivered slightly to herself, hugging the crimson knee-length robe closer to her body.
Then, there was the atypicality of him.
The person who helped her cousin recover from her feeble state. To say that it was strange was an understatement; but Rosalie wasn't thinking about that. The brunette wantedㅡcravedㅡto be in his presence. It was like there was this invisible pull that draw her to him, which was ridiculous, in her opinion. She never, ever got hung up on something as trivial as a boy (Okay, he was attractive. Very attractive, she admits. But it wasn't about that). Moreover was that she couldn't shake off the uncanny feeling of warm familiarity towards him. Like she somehow knew that handsome blond man with an accent before.
Another horrific thought that she couldn't get rid of was the fact that her right hand had to remain unused for at least a week. Before leaving the house, Rosalie had kindly asked her mother to check on her injured fist ("what on earth did you do?!"). Not only was it bruised,ㅡthat was vividly clearㅡbut the tendons were also strained. The doctor had wrapped it with a bandage to prevent Rosalie from accidentally moving it. No piano for a week; the brunette was aghast at the mere idea of it.
