It's a fact that you can't help who you fall in love with. And for Rosaline Davenport and him, it definitely shouldn't have been each other.
Because, sometimes, love stories have blood on them.
[warning: this is the mother of all slow-burns]
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【 04.
Four
Yaadein 】
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[ Yaadein • memories ]
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ROSALINE HAS ALWAYS preferred white roses over the red. She doesn’t know why and she doesn’t think there’s a particular reason. But there’s something about the purity of the white flower, the serenity that it carries within those petals, the safety that it simply oozes of. The red ones, on the other hand, trouble Rose. They look dark and intense and like they’re about to wage a war of love and passion, that all she knows to do is look away and reach for the safer flowers instead.
She is drawn to the red, yes. They’re what claim her attention, that claim her eyes, her heart, and her soul. But she always chooses the white. It’s become so natural to her now. And Rose doesn’t even question herself why.
“Those are beautiful,” an oddly familiar voice says from behind her and Rose turns her body around from where she stands by the door, where the bouquet of white roses were delivered moments ago.
“Mr…” Rose narrows her eyes, holding up a finger to let the man know she has his name buried somewhere in her mind, within the folds of blurred and vague memories. She looks at the neat suit, the standard black-and-white attire, the Bluetooth speaker sitting snug in one of his ear, and the faded, slanting scar that runs from his left temple down to his cheekbone. “Mr. Scar?” the name rolls off her mouth with heavy confusion, and she watches the man wearily, who just begins to laugh.
“Yeah, that’s what you used to call me when you were a kid,” he nods, that hearty grin not slipping off his clean-shaven face. His smile, though not appearing familiar, feels like it is, and so Rose returns it. “But no, sweetheart, my name happens to be Garry Harker.”
“I remember you!” Rose exclaims, lifting herself on the tips of her toes before dropping back down on the balls of her feet, recalling that she’s no longer in her shared apartment in London with her fellow med student, but that this is the States, where her name actually means something. More than something.
“I remember you,” she says in a tone more polite, more suitable, and more Davenport-ish. “You used to give me piggy back rides, I think… There’s this photo album I have,” she adds as an explanation, “It’s my entire childhood documented with photographs of memories I can’t even recall.” She laughs weakly, walking forward to place the bouquet next to the vase on the mantelpiece so that she’ll remember to throw out the old daisies and put these in instead. “And I’ve seen pictures of you in it.”
