I open my apartment door eager to see the familiar violet azaleas lining the walkway nearest my apartment building. My lips curl into a smile as I pass by a large bunch of daffodils. I run my fingers across their velvety petals; each touch fills my heart with happiness. However, seeing a cluster of yellow tulips nearby, I tear up. Nostalgia washes over me as these delicate flowers evoke memories of my time with you.
But the words
Look it’s her,
Look it’s her,
Look it’s her
keep repeating in my head.
It’s all in the attitude,
My father used to say.
If you don’t change,
It will make you go astray.
love stories told in roses.
I was in the attic. The damp, dark attic. I was sitting on a creaky bed right next to the window. Fireworks again. My neighbours cheering again. I winced from the pain on my knee — but when I looked down, I saw it wasn’t bleeding anymore.
Why did I keep doing this?
I could smell the dampness of the attic. The warmth. I touched the window, but jerked my hand back — it was ice-cold. I blew on my hands to warm them. The attic shone with gold and red, constant ‘booms!’ here and there.
Wasn’t this familiar?
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