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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【 03.
Three
Aghyaar 】
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[ Aghyaar • strangers ]
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ROSALINE CAN SEE nothing but an endless field before her, a bronze-dusted green that runs forever and ever, a flood of gold from the streaming sunlight following behind without hesitation.
She can feel the warmth on her face, sitting there underneath a pale blue sky that stretches on and on without any bounds, making herself feel infinite in that very moment.
She feels a pressure on her hand, and Rose looks down to find a smaller palm covering the top of hers. The little boy stares back, all wide eyes and childish oblivion, ash-brown hair that flutters with the gentle breeze sweeping above both their heads. But his eyes—his eyes—those belong to Rose. A green that has no depth, no end. A green that glints and shimmers under the brilliance of a summer sky.
“Hi,” she whispers to the child, and her breath catches in her throat.
He smiles back at her, two lower front teeth appearing in Rose’s line of sight. The little boy doesn’t say the word back, doesn’t gurgle, doesn’t blabber. And she has no idea what he sounds like, hasn’t the faintest clue whether he has a high-pitch or a soft sigh.
But the boy is still familiar. He has hair that is familiar, a creamy-toned skin that is familiar, a Roman nose that is familiar, and a pair of eyes Rose knows all too well. But there’s something more—something beyond his flesh and his bones. There’s something deep, deep inside that calls out to Rose. That tells her she knows this boy. As if their souls are tethered together.
“What’s your name?” she asks him in that same whisper, but some part of her feels like he won’t answer. Knows that he can’t answer.
The little boy turns his head to his side and Rose follows his gaze, eyes falling on a cardboard box with the name Laurie scrawled on its top in pretty calligraphic writing. Her writing.
The box feels familiar too, and she feels an odd ache in the centre of her chest. As if all this familiarity comes from a place of unspeakable heartbreak, of a pain she is yet to fathom.
Rose’s hands reach for the box, knocking off the lid and peering at what lies inside.
There’s a collection of toy figurines; a soldier, a superhero, a dinosaur, a reindeer, a stallion, and an elf.
Rose’s eyes dart from the collection to the boy, wondering what he might pick out of the lot. The innocent curiosity turns to an aching desperation, one that ignites in her stomach and builds and builds and builds until all she feels down there is a crushing weight. She needs to know what his choice will be, she needs to know what his favourite is. There’s so much she doesn’t know about the boy, so much she’s yearning to learn.
