"God gave us our relatives; thank God we can choose our friends."
Ethel Watts Mumford.
Sunshine creeps through the pale-pink curtains of my bedroom window, falling upon my disorganised desk. As I roll over, my bed creaks and I pull the cobalt-blue sheets over my body. Voices speak in hushed tones down stairs, yet I ignore them, covering my ears with my soft, snow-white pillow. Swamp-green leaves rustle in response to the wind and the caramel-brown, gnarled branches, gently tap against my window, easily irritating me.
Pots and pans clang together, an indication that mother is most likely making breakfast. Cups cling together, footsteps thumping as someone travels along the landing. In the distance, I can vaguely hear the tap running and the shift of objects as father occupies the bathroom. Again, I make an attempt to cover my ears, wishing the walls were soundproof.
Outside, the engines of vehicles hum loudly, pulling me out of my light nap. Laughter occurs and birds tweet sweetly as children scream and giggle. Sunlight intensifies whilst large congregations pass by, fragments of their conversations being heard. On some occasions I can perceive whistling and on other occasions, I can depict the pattering of feet from the screech of tyres.
Annoyed, I haul myself out of bed, grabbing my brush and running it through my raven-black hair. Sighing, I rub my eyes before staring at my reflection, paying attention to the small pimples that rest against the side of my face, the slight wrinkles underneath my eyes and the light shade of pink on my cheeks and lips.
Red persistently says that all of theses factors contribute to my 'natural beauty.' That unlike the other girls, my looks contain a form of purity and innocence and therefore, I should relish in that. Still, I frequently deny his compliments, commenting upon the fact that it's more convenient for me to remain alone.
"I am the living proof that you are not meant to be alone," he whispered in my ear one time as we were walking home.
Chuckling, I check my phone, only to scroll through it and find nothing that captures my interest. I consider sleeping again but it seems like a waste of time. I decide the best thing to do is get dressed and head downstairs.
...
Staggering into the kitchen in a white top, trainers and blue jeans, I grab an apple. Whilst doing this, I take the time to admire Wyatt's bracelet, tracing our names. Observing all the other charms, I quickly text him, stating the obvious.
"I miss you."
As I do this, Mother manoeuvres around the space, multitasking as she greets me with a good morning.
"Good morning," I retort, munching away.
Turning around, Mother smirks, nodding her approval. At first, I'm perplexed as to why she does this. However, it doesn't take me long to find out.
"I'm glad to see that you're eating some fruit," she smiles. "Healthy eating is key!"
"I know," I mumble, already frustrated at her insensitivity.
"I understand that it's not your fault," Mother explains. "It's one of the symptoms from your condition. But, that doesn't mean you can't do things on your part to change that fate."
Groaning, I reply with;
"I'm already doing exercise."
I know," she responds, chopping some vegetables. "I know, Valentina."
Suddenly, the door bell rings and seeing this as my chance to get away, I offer to answer it.
Again it rings, and I have to shout to get the person to stop being so annoying.
"Hold on a second!" I shout. "Seems like some people don't know how to wait," I mumble the last part.
And then it happens.
Everything seems to slow down. Opening the dark, brown door, I come face to face with a boy with tanned skin. He stands there, red shirt and black jeans and trainers, dark hair appearing quite messy, as if he just got out of bed. Smile perched on his lips and chain around his neck. Emerald-green eyes filled with amusement.
"Oh Wyatt," I think. "You're too sweet."
I don't think this because I'm glad he showed up.
Am I happy that he's here?
Yes.
Am I happy that he's making an effort to change?
Yes.
But the real reason why I think that he's too sweet, is because in his hands, are a bouquet.
A bouquet of navy-blue roses.