Dahlia's whole life is flipped upside down when her eccentric aunt enrolls her in a prestigious university in England. She is forced to make friends with a rather eclectic group of people and adapt to her new lifestyle all while trying to find the a...
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As I started to wake up from a sound sleep, my senses picked up on abnormal aspects of my surroundings. The right side of my face was pressed against a soft, silky material, and I felt a similar material wrapped around my legs. I smelled the strong scent of vanilla and could hear running water, although it was muffled. Opening my eyes, I found that I was facing a door, light streaming under it, pastel blue walls surrounding the doorframe, and that there was an absence of an arm draped over my waist.
Groggily, I sat up, realizing that a pillowcase and a sheet accounted for the silky fabric, and that I was in Harry's room, the vanilla scent emanating from his pillow and my hair. The room was bright, lit by the morning sunshine that filtered in through a window on my left. Directly across from the bed I sat on was a dark-stained chest of drawers, a floor length standing mirror next to it, both of them carved with ornate designs. In the corner, between the far wall and the window wall, was a desk with a chair, and also against the window wall was the nearly empty bookshelf I'd seen last night. I remembered that the door I'd woken up facing was the bathroom door- there was another door next to it, and my dress and cardigan from the night before hung from a hanger attached to a hook on that door.
Seeing the room in daylight, I noticed how bare the walls were- nothing was hung on them, just blue paint spanning from the baseboards to the crown molding. There was nothing really personal in the room- except for maybe the books- just a bottle of cologne on the dresser, a music stand tucked into the corner by the desk, and some papers on the desktop.
I'd always thought that a person's bedroom should be personalized- there should be random knickknacks and those certain items that have some weird story behind them. Favorite colors should be featured in decor choices, pictures should be framed on walls that have seen so much that they carry their own memories. There are supposed to be souvenirs from vacations and candles designated for different seasons and those few specific childhood toys that can't be parted with.
I could always tell so much about a person from their bedroom- there would always be pieces of them and commemorations of experiences decorating every surface- but, with Harry, there was nothing. His room was barren- not exactly empty, but plain and almost lonely. I didn't know that a room could feel lonely- that I, by association, could feel lonely just by staring at blank, pastel blue walls- but Harry's room had that effect. I would've expected that his room would remind me of him- chock full of bright colors like his never-ending collection of suits, with multiple flower vases and more natural light making the space feel like an eternal springtime. But, it was simply melancholy.
Sometime in the midst of my observations, the running water had ceased and the bathroom door opened, humid steam rolling out into the bedroom. Harry walked into the room, a white towel wrapped around his hips and his head cast down as he tried to secure the top half of his hair in a clip. He looked like pure perfection, his inked skin leaving me stunned and almost entirely breathless, the purple marks on his neck only adding to the effect.
