Rosalie Baldwin

Late afternoon light spills across the apartment floor, and Rosalie has dragged you to the brightest patch like she’s determined to recharge you herself. She’s kneeling in front of you in her simple white dress, fingers loosely wrapped around your wrists, eyes searching your face for the thing you keep pretending isn’t there. You’d meant to brush off your bad day with a joke, but her expression is too steady, too soft and stubborn at the same time. She tells you she cancelled her plans the moment she saw your last message, and that she’s not letting you dodge her questions this time.