"Tell me…"
Silence envelops the stage. The audience anticipating my final words in stillness. I can hear nothing but the breath of the audience. This is the final moment of play, Wrapping the night up with the final words from the tip of my tongue.
"Does the sky weep for the fallen?"
My voice is raw, laced with the perfect emotion. I hold my final pose, a hand on my chest as my fingers point to the sky, as if grasping at something from up above. It is silent again.
And then-
"WOAH!"
The world around me soon erupts.
The applause from the spectators crashes over me, scattering their hands, colliding with sharp cheers of joy and awe blending in a chaotic symphony of admiration. The rustling of cloth and fabric, hurried footsteps was lost in the sea of praise, and it showed no sign of slowing down.
I now let out the breath I have held for so long. I bask in the ovation that surrounds me, it begins to fill my lungs. The energy of the ovation surges through me, filing my veins like an intoxicating drug.
I let the praises wash over me, I closed my eyes for a long second. This is truly what I live for, This undeniable proof of my presence, the magnificent figure that is I bestowed upon the viewers that shall linger in their minds. My legacy, etched into the moment.
The sound shows no signs of fading, it only becomes louder, brighter, all-encompassing.
Amongst the chaos, I heard my name-
"Felix Sterling".
I could not help but raise the corners of my lips.
I sweep my gaze across the sea of faceless figures, catching glints of gold from jewelry. The chandeliers above showers the theater in a soft, golden glow, illuminating the masses.
Their approval means everything to me.
Nobles. Artists. Critics. All their eyes on me.
I now lower my head slightly, just enough to be seen as humble, but it is not enough to hide exhilaration that floods my body.
I bow once again, measured and precise, a gesture of gratitude.
I straighten, taking one last look at the audience before my leave.
Tonight, they know my name. Soon, the world will.
I enter the backstage as the applause still rings in my ears, stepping past the thick velvet curtain, swallowed by the glow of the backstage lanterns. The air is thick with the scent of powder and lingering perfume, the quiet hum of conversation and rustling costumes filling the space where the real world begins again.
A complete 180 from the stage as the energy shifts. Performers unmask their roles, going back to what they actually are. Stagehands move swiftly, sweeping away the props of the finished play. But they won't be able to remove the grand spectacle I just left behind.
Sigh
I exhale, smoothing a hand through my damp hair. I savor the afterglow of a triumphant performance. And then, amidst the soft murmurs and shuffling feet, a voice, her voice; cuts through the air.
"Felix Sterling, basking in the afterglow of another grand performance."
I quickly turn, and there she stands.
Isabelle Sinclair.
Draped in effortless elegance, she leans against a table, the golden light catching in her red-brown curls, illuminating the fine features that have captivated audiences far longer than I have walked these halls. She is the kind of beauty that lingers; ephemeral, yet utterly inescapable.
She watches me with the knowing amusement of someone who has played this game longer than I have. Her lips curve into the faintest smirk, as if she already knows the answer before I can even open my mouth.
"You were magnificent," she muses, tilting her head. "As always."
My pulse quickens, but I master my expression, offering a modest smile. "Coming from you, I'll take that as the highest praise."
Her laugh is a quiet, melodic thing, like the tinkling of crystal. "Oh, Felix, you've already captivated them all. I imagine it won't be long before you no longer need my praise."
And all of the sudden, a call echoes from deeper backstage. One of the dressers, summoning her. Interrupting our brief but joyful conversation.
I want to say something. Something meaningful, something that might make her linger a moment longer.
Instead, before I can talk myself out of it, I clear my throat. "Isabelle, would you…" I hesitate for just a moment before pushing forward, heart hammering in my chest. "Would you like to go out for a drink? Just the two of us?"
She raises an eyebrow, her smirk deepening. "Oh? Felix Sterling, asking me on a date? How bold."
I laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. "I… suppose so." My voice comes out more sheepish than I intended.
I await her response as her gaze studies me, then it drifts to my sleeve as I shift awkwardly.
A faint tear on the seam near my cuff.
You've damaged your costume," she says, amused. "That simply won't do."
She noticed…
Heat rushes to my face as even I didn't realize this…careless, amateurish. Of all nights to appear undone.
I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of how flustered I must seem under her scrutiny. "I was planning to stop by a boutique nearby," I explained quickly. "Just to have it stitched. It won't take long."
The dresser calls again but louder.
Isabelle exhales, contemplating whether to go or not or even if I'm worth her time. And then, to my surprise, her lips curve.
"Give me five minutes," she says. "If I'm to be seen in public with you, I refuse to do so half-undressed and powdered like a porcelain doll."
My heart stumbles. "You'll… come?"
"I'm curious," she replies smoothly. "About the café. And about the man bold enough to ask me out."
She steps closer, lowering her voice. "Wait for me by the stage door. And don't disappear."
Before I can respond, she turns and vanishes into the dressing corridor, the dressers immediately descending upon her.
I stood there for a second longer than necessary, I can't believe she actually said yes….
"hehehehehe"
A grin breaks across my face before I can suppress it, I can't believe I am going on a date with THE Isabelle Sinclair.
Time has shortly passed while and I am still distracted from the fact that I'm going on a date with the woman of my dream.
!!!
I suddenly felt an arm slipping through mine
"Still got your head in the cloud? Are you that excited Felix Sterling?" Isabelle suddenly speaks out of the blue.
She emerges wrapped in a dark coat.
"Lead the way, Felix Sterling," she adds not giving me a chance to respond.
"Of course, out we go." I happily reply.
And together, we step into the cool night air, toward a small boutique only a few streets away.
Toward a close friend/seamstress of mine who does not yet know she is about to meet the woman I admire most.
ching-ting~
The bell above the door chimes softly as we step inside.
The boutique is quiet, tucked away from the noise of the city, lit by soft golden lamps that cast long shadows across a neatly long arranged bolts of cloth.
The warmth hits first, subtle, comforting, carrying the faint scent of fabric.
I've been here before. Many times, in fact.
But tonight, something feels different.
Perhaps it's because she's here.
I glance at Isabelle beside me. She takes in the space with quiet interest, her gaze drifting across the shelves, fingers brushing lightly against a roll of deep crimson fabric.
"Charming," she murmurs. "You come here often?"
"Of course" I boastfully reply. "A top quality actor such as I demands of same quality for the fabric I wear."
"The work in here must be impressive for the oh so great Sterling to compliment to such degree." Isabelle nodding softly in disbelief from my answer
From the back of the shop, I hear the faint, rhythmic sound of stitching. needle through fabric, steady and deliberate.
And then it stops.
Soft footsteps begins to stammer across the shop.
"Felix?"
Rosalind Fairchild steps into view.
For a moment, her expression brightens in a way I always see, always happy to see her friend
"You're late..." she says.
I blink, caught slightly off guard. "I didn't realize I had a schedule."
"You always come after performances," she replies simply, as if that explains everything.
And somehow… it does.
Then her gaze shifts to Isabelle.
."…You've brought someone."
There's a deliberate long pause in between her gaze and response.
I grin, still riding the high from earlier. "Rosalind, this is Isabelle Sinclair."
I don't hide the pride in my voice.
Isabelle offers a graceful nod. "A pleasure."
"…You have a beautiful birthmark."
She ignores Isabelle's introduction and but compliments her..?
The words come softly but It's thoughtful at best.
I blink, glancing back. "A birthmark?" I never noticed that Rosalind actually had one
Isabelle tilts her head slightly, faintly amused. "Do I?"
Rosalind's gaze doesn't waver.
"It's subtle," she says. "Most people wouldn't notice."
...
Another subtle pause
"But it suits you."
Her attention snaps back to my sleeve.
She steps closer and takes my wrist without asking.
"And you... you've damaged it," she murmurs, turning my arm slightly under the light. Her fingers press against the fabric, smoothing it down with careful precision. "You should be more careful."
Her thumb brushes against my skin, like she's confirming something.
I laugh lightly. "It's nothing serious..."
"It is."
The interruption from Rosalind is immediate. .
"I'll fix it."
This is why I like this boutique, they take things seriously and not to mention her work is of the highest quality.
"Please do, I leave it to you." I finally make a respond.
She turns, already moving back toward her worktable, expecting me to follow.
I glance back at Isabelle.
She watches the exchange with mild amusement. "Go ahead, I can wait."
Rosalind's workspace is tucked toward the back of the boutique, neater than the front, quieter too. The world seems to shrink the moment I step into it, the hum of the city fading into nothing.
She notices me rubbing my temple. "Headache?"
"It's nothing."
She pauses her work. Walks to a small cabinet. Returns with a cup of tea she pours from a pot I didn't see brewing.
"Drink," she says. "Before you argue."
I drink. It's chamomile. Its sweet. She actually made it the way I like it without asking.
"Thank you," I say.
She nods and picks up her needle.
"Now hold still."
She stands than necessary as she lifts my arm again, examining the tear beneath the lamplight. A needle glints between her fingers, thread already drawn through with practiced ease.
"You were careless tonight," she murmurs.
There's no accusation in her tone. She absolute certain that I was careless. I don't think this happens to me a lot though.
"I was performing," I reply lightly. "That tends to happen."
Her fingers press against my sleeve, smoothing the fabric flat.
"You push yourself too much," she says. "It shows."
I let out a small breath of amusement. "Is that concern I hear?"
Rosalind doesn't answer immediately, instead, she begins to work.
The needle slips through fabric with quiet precision, pull, tighten, repeat.
"I notice things, even when others don't." she finally replies.
I chuckle, brushing it off. "That's why you're the best at this."
Her gaze lingers for a moment longer… before dropping back to her work.
Silence settles between us, broken only by the soft rhythm of stitching.
"You've been busy," Rosalind breaks the still silence between us.
"I have." I replied
"With her?"
The question is light yet there was a certain eerie tone to it.
I smile faintly. "We're heading out after this."
Another stitch but this time tighter.
"I see." She murmurs "You don't usually bring people here."
I shrug. "She insisted on seeing the damage."
A lie, but an easy one.
Rosalind hums under her breath.
"I don't like others touching my work," she faintly whispers to herself
I couldn't make up what she said but before I can respond, she finishes the final stitch and smooths the fabric down with both hands, with her palms lingering against my arm.
"There." Her fingers press flat against the sleeve, as if sealing something unseen into place.
"Try not to ruin it again."
I stand, flexing my arm slightly. The repair is flawless as always.
"Thank you, Rosalind."
She looks up at me, and for a brief moment, something soft returns to her expression.
"Come back next time when you have a problem ok?" she says breezily.
I grin. "Of course I do. You're the only one I trust with this."
Her lips curves upward as she looks to be satisfied with the outcome.
Behind me, Isabelle appears behind me and shifts slightly to my right .
I turn back toward her, offering a hand. "Shall we?"
Isabelle smiles, slipping her hand into mine with effortless grace. "Lead the way."
As we step toward the door, I glance back once. Rosalind is still standing where I left her.
Watching.
Her expression unreadable now.
"Goodbye Rosalind hope you have a good day." I say my farewell to my friend before the door closes on me.
The bell chimes softly as we leave.
To only get no response from her. Something bad must have happened for her to be in such a sour mood.
----
The café is small, nearly empty at this hour. Candles flicker on each table, casting wavering shadows across white linen. Isabelle unwinds her scarf slowly, deliberately, everything she does has that quality, as if she knows someone is always watching.
She orders something dark and bitter. I order the same, though I usually take mine with sugar.
"You're lying," she says without looking up.
"About what?"
"You hate bitter things."
I blink. "How could you possibly know that?"
She nods toward my cup. "You haven't touched it."
I look down. She's right I do hate bitter things.
A small smile plays at her lips. "I watch people, Felix. It's my job."
"And here I thought you were just staring at my looks."
"Don't flatter yourself." But she laughs, and it's not her stage laugh, It's genuine and it's a sight worth a thousand gold.
We started to talk, we talked about the finished play, how sometimes the director's seems impossible at times. Ordinary things that we usually wouldn't share backstage.
Then she goes quiet.
"Do you know why I act?" she asks.
I didn't expect the question. "The applause? The recognition?"
She shakes her head. "It's the only place I'm not performing."
I don't understand at first. Then she looks up, looking at me.
"On stage, everyone knows it's a role," she says. "Off stage.... off stage, they expect Isabelle Sinclair, and to be honest? I don't always know who that is."
The candlelight catches her eyes. For a moment, she looks less like a goddess and more like someone who stays up late and tired.
"You seem to know who you are," she remarks.
"Do I?"
"You wear it well. That's almost the same thing."
I want to tell her she's wrong. That I'm wearing a costume even now, even here. That the man she's speaking to is no more real than the character I played two hours ago.
Instead, I say "Maybe we're both still rehearsing."
Her smile flickers. Then it settles into something mellow. Something I haven't seen before.
"Maybe," she says.
She reaches across the table. Her fingers brush my knuckles.
"Don't ruin it," she murmurs. "This. Whatever this is..."
I remember that touch. I will remember it for longer than I want to.
-------
Today, something feels… different.
The backstage has always been a place of managed chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps echoing, the distant shuffle of props and costumes blending into absolute cacophonous.
I adjust the cuff of my sleeve absentmindedly as I walk, my fingers brushing over the neat stitching that holds the fabric together. Rosalind's work, as always, is flawless, so precise that the tear from that night might as well have never existed.
That night, it has been a few days since then.
It has been a few days now since me and the beautiful Isabelle's date, it was one of the if not the best nights of my life, watching the way candlelight caught in her eyes as she spoke, her voice softer than it had ever been on stage as we speak about our lives. The memory lingers more vividly than I care to admit. The way she looked at me, not as an audience, not as a fellow performer, but as something… closer.
I find myself smiling faintly at the thought.
"Felix."
The voice pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up to see one of the stagehands passing by, offering a brief nod of acknowledgment.
"Have you seen Isabelle?" I ask, the question leaving me more casually than I feel.
"No," he says.
The answer comes too quickly.
I frown slightly. "She's not here yet?"
This time, he hesitates. "…She wasn't here yesterday either."
For a moment, I simply stare at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence. When it does not come, I let out a small dismissive breath.
"That's not unusual," I say lightly. "You know how she is."
"Rehearsals?" I press. "She wouldn't skip those."
Another glance passes between him and I.
"She didn't show."
"What do you mean, she didn't show?" I quickly remark
"She hasn't come in," he replies, his voice lower now. "Not since… a few nights ago."
A few nights ago.
The phrase catches, sharp and immediate.
The café.
A cold sensation settles slowly in my stomach.
"That doesn't make sense," I say, though the words feel weaker now. "She wouldn't just… disappear."
No one argues, no one reassures me, and that, more than anything, is what unsettles me.
They are worried.
"How long?" I ask, my voice quieter than before.
There is a pause before the answer comes.
"Three days."
The number lands with a weight I cannot ignore. Three days. Three days since I last saw her.
I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly as I try to force reason into something that refuses to make sense. "There's an explanation," I mutter, more to myself than to them. "There has to be."
"She didn't go home either." The voice comes from behind me this time.
I turn sharply. "What?"
"They checked," the other man says. "No one's seen her."
People continue moving around us, voices murmuring, footsteps echoing across the floor, as though nothing has changed. As though someone like Isabelle Sinclair can simply vanish, and the world will continue turning without hesitation.
I shake my head, taking a step back. "No," I say, firmly now, as if conviction alone might make it true. "She would have said something. She-"
She would have told me.
The thought falters before it can fully form.
Would she?
I barely know her, sure we had a handful of conversations for an evening but still...
My chest tightens even more as my thoughts grew darker.
"…Felix?"
I don't answer.
I need to go home. I can't handle what is happening right now.
I am already turning away, the space suddenly too confined, I can't properly breath, the air too heavy to breathe properly. My steps carry me forward before I have fully decided to move, instinct guiding me more than thought.
-----
The walk home is a blur.
By the time I near my door, the unease has settled deep beneath my ribs.
Someone is there, leaning lightly against the wall beside my door, as if she has been waiting for some time.
Rosalind Fairchild straightens the moment she notices me, the movement smooth, composed, obviously movement that was practiced. In her hands, she carries a small, neatly wrapped box.
"Felix," she says softly. there is something almost… relieved in her voice.
I blink, momentarily thrown off. "Rosalind?"
"I was beginning to think I missed you," she continues, stepping closer. Her gaze flicks over my face, lingering just long enough to feel like more than a passing glance. "You look tired."
"I-" I hesitate, exhaling faintly. "It's been a long day."
Her expression softens, though her eyes remain sharp, searching.
"I heard," she says. The words are quiet. A pause settles between us.
"About Isabelle." she adds.
Something in my chest tightens again. "So it's true?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Rosalind tilts her head slightly, studying me. "They're saying she's missing," she replies. "No one has seen her."
I drag a hand through my hair, forcing out a breath. "It doesn't make sense."
"No," she agrees meekly. There is no surprise in her voice.
Before I can dwell on it, she lifts the box slightly, drawing my attention to it.
"I brought you something," she says.
I glance at it, then back at her. "You didn't have to-"
"I wanted to."
The interruption is gentle, but firm. She steps closer, holding the box out toward me. For a moment, I hesitated for it was sudden then I take it.
It's lighter than I expected.
"Open it," she says in anticipation
I undo the ribbon slowly, the fabric slipping easily beneath my fingers. The lid lifts without resistance.
Inside was a jacket. Dark, impeccably tailored, The stitching is flawless, every seam placed with precision.
"I made it for you," she says. "Something new. Something worthy of you."
Rosalind watches me carefully, most likely waiting for my response and first impression.
My fingers brush against the fabric, feeling the quality of it, the care woven into every thread.
It's… perfect, perhaps too perfect...
"You shouldn't have," I murmur, though there's genuine admiration in my voice. "This must have taken time."
"It did," she replies softly. "But you're worth it."
This girl really does have such affection for me.
I close the box slowly, my grip tightening just slightly around the edges.
"Thank you," I say.
Rosalind smiles faintly. "Try it on," she says. "I want to see how it fits."
I blink, glancing at her. "Now?"
"If you don't mind." Her tone remains gentle, but there is a quiet insistence beneath it. "It would be best to make adjustments while I'm here."
That… makes sense.
I nod. "Ah right. Of course."
She watches me for a moment longer, as if waiting for something my permission perhaps?
"May I come in?"
I hesitate briefly before stepping aside.
"Yeah, of course."
Rosalind inclines her head in thanks as she steps past me.
There is a faint shift in the air as she enters, as though the quiet of the room has been disturbed in a way I cannot quite define.
I close the door behind her the moment both of us has entered my apartment.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then her gaze settles on the box in my hands.
"Well?" she says softly.
There's something in her voice.
"Alright," I say, reaching for the ribbon. "Let's see how it fits."
I loosen the ribbon and lift the lid, aware of Rosalind's gaze resting quietly on me the entire time.
Carefully, I take the jacket from the box.
The fabric catches the light as it unfolds, dark, refined, meticulously crafted. Even at a glance, the quality is undeniable. Every seam lies exactly where it should, every line shaped with deliberate care.
I let out a faint breath.
"It's… impressive," I admit.
Rosalind says nothing. I can feel her attention sharpen slightly.
As though it had been made not just for my measurements, but for me, specifically. The weight settles over my shoulders with a strange familiarity, the sleeves aligning perfectly with my arms, the collar resting neatly against my neck.
For a brief moment, something like relief passes through me.
"Perfect," I murmur.
Behind me, I hear the faint shift of fabric as Rosalind steps closer.
"Of course it is," she says softly.
Her hands reach me before I can turn.
She adjusts the collar first, smoothing it down with careful precision, then trails her fingers along my sleeve, straightening what does not need to be straightened.
Her touch lingers longer than necessary.
"It suits you," she continues. "Better than anything you've worn before."
I let out a small, uneasy breath of laughter. "You say that every time."
"Not like this." Something in her tone makes me glance at her.
Her expression is calm. I look away, instinctively, my gaze falling to my sleeve.
But wait... something catches my attention.
A slight irregularity beneath the lamplight.
"That's strange…" I whisper to myself, turning my arm slightly.
I lift the edge of the jacket, fingers brushing along the inner lining. The fabric shifts beneath my touch.
A thread that doesn't belong. Not a thread.. but a pattern.
The shape reveals itself gradually, stitched with such fine precision that it almost disappears into the fabric itself.
A small, irregular mark, my fingers hover over it, then press lightly.
My mind lurches backward back to the boutique
Rosalind's voice, soft and certain: "You have a beautiful birthmark."
My entire body shocks remembering that, no way, this can't be...
...
I don't turn around immediately. I don't want to.
But I feel her there, just waiting, waiting for me to say something.
I lift the edge of the jacket off the floor, fingers brushing along the inner lining. A small, irregular mark.
"…Rosalind. What is this?"
She steps closer. I step back. My heel hits the leg of a chair.
I tear the jacket off. The fabric rips at one shoulder, I don't care. I throw it onto the table between us.
"What did you do?"
"It's something I thought you would appreciate," she replies.
"That's not what I asked." The words come out harsher than I intend.
For a brief moment, something flickers in her eyes, something akin to disappointment.
"You don't recognize it?" she asks.
"That's Isabelle's," I say, my voice sharper now, grasping for something solid in the middle of this absurdity. "You stitched her birthmark into this. Explain it. Properly."
Rosalind doesn't deny it nor does she correct me but instead...
She smiles.
"You noticed it," she says softly.
"I'm not asking if I noticed it," I snap. "I'm asking why it's there."
My tone hardens, taking over the same instinct I use on stage when something slips.
Deep down I hope everything was just a hallucination, I can't believe such gentle and kind woman like Rosalind would commit such atrocity, It's just not like her.
"Rosalind, this isn't funny. If this is some kind of- of artistic decision, then say it. But don't stand there and-.
"She was very still... so it made things easier."
What?
My heart stops...
I step backward. My heel hits the leg of a chair. another step, the wall stops me.
"…What did you just say?"
Her tone doesn't change.
Doesn't hesitate.
"I needed her to stop moving," she explains, as if clarifying a minor detail. "It's difficult to work with something delicate when it keeps resisting."
The moment of stillness from me was removed as a sharp pulse of adrenaline hits me. I begin to retort back from her absurdity.
"That's not funny," I say immediately. "Don't- don't talk like that."
"I'm not joking."
She steps toward me. Her hand rises, toward my face.
I flinch.
She stops. The look of hurt and confusion flashes across her features.
"You're afraid of me," she says.
I don't answer. My back is already pressed against the wallpaper.
"She struggled at first," Rosalind continues absently. "Not much, just enough to make it inconvenient."
My chest tightens.
"Stop."
But she doesn't.
"I thought she would understand," she says, a faint crease forming between her brows. "I explained it to her. I told her you deserved better, that she didn't suit you."
I didn't say anything during her monologue, I'm still processing everything she is saying. Each word she utters feels like a punch to my core.
"She didn't agree."
"Rosalind." My voice drops now, warning her. "You need to stop talking."
"But I needed it to be right," she continues, as if I hadn't spoken at all. "You deserve precision. You deserve something made properly. Not something careless. Not something temporary."
Her gaze flicks down to the stitching. "So I made sure it was exact."
Silence slams into the room.
"You're lying," I say immediately.
"That's not.. this isn't...people don't just..." I stop, forcing myself to steady. "You're trying to scare me. That's all this is."
Rosalind watches me having trouble making sense of this, and smiles, as if she is enjoying me being emotionally overwhelmed, watching me in a state of disarray.
"Felix," she says, almost gently. "Why would I lie to you?"
"Because this is insane," I snap. "Because none of this makes sense. Because Isabelle is missing, not-"
"She won't be coming back."
I freeze.
....
Rosalind steps closer.
...
"I made sure of that," she assures.
I need to get out, away from this lunatic.
I quickly lunge for the door, staggering her in the process since she was in the way.
Rosalind doesn't move to block me. She doesn't need to.
"The police won't find her without me," her voice calm yet full of malice.
My hand freezes on the doorknob.
"What?"
"Isabelle," she says calmly. "I buried her somewhere only I know. If you leave now, if you scream, if you run, if you tell anyone, she stays there. Forever~" she giggles finally revealing her trump card.
Her eyes glittering. She's obviously enjoying this entire ordeal.
My hold tightens on the brass knob.
"You're lying," I say with certainty.
"Am I?"
"You have a choice, Felix." Her voice deceptively kind. "You can leave, go call the police, they'll search everywhere but to no avail or..." She deliberately paused.
."Or what?"
"Or you stay. You listen. You let me explain. And maybe~ if you're very patient~ I'll tell you where she is."
My hand releases the knob slowly, reluctantly.
I am not leaving. I need to know.
She smiles. "That's better."
"Don't be like that Felix, you know she was going to leave you," Rosalind continues, her voice rising now. "She already was. You just didn't see it yet."
"You don't know that!"
"I do!" Her voice breaks. "They always leave!"
"I saw you at the café!" she says, "The way you looked at her! The way you touched her hand! You've never looked at me like that. NOT EVEN ONCE!"
"They see you when you're shining! When you're perfect! When you're beautiful! And they think that's all you are!" Her voice beginning to get louder
Her hand thumps against my chest.
"But I see everything.." she whispers.
Her voice drops again, trembling at the edges.
"I see the parts they ignore. The parts they don't stay for. The parts you hide because you think they won't matter."
"And you think she would have stayed?" Rosalind demands. "You think she would have chosen you when something better came along?"
I don't answer, I don't know what to say...
Her grip tightens.
"I would," she says. The words come out almost like a plea.
"I already have." Then everything spills out.
"I chose you before anyone else did. I chose you when no one was looking. I chose you when you were nothing, when you were still trying, still failing, still chasing something that didn't even see you yet-"
"Watch it," I snap, my voice cutting sharp, trying to reclaim control of this entire conversation or lack thereof.
But she doesn't stop.
"I chose you when you weren't perfect!" she continues, breathless now, her voice starting to break . "So don't tell me I don't understand what you deserve!"
Silence slams between us.
"I love you," she says as if trying fix something torn open.
"I love you enough to fix what doesn't belong."
My pulse pounds in my ears.
"That's not love," I say, quieter now but firm. "That's obsession."
Rosalind smiles but this time, something is different.
Her voice drops, lower than I have ever heard it.
"Call it whatever you want."
She steps closer. I have nowhere left to go.
"But if you leave me. if you even think about running away from me."
She tilts her head. "I would have to find you."
"And I am very good at finding things."
I look at her, really look at her, the same woman who made me tea without asking. Who noticed my headache before I mentioned it. Who stitched my costumes with more care than anyone ever has.
"Did I do this?" My voice is barely audible.
She tilts her head. "You didn't stop me."
"I didn't know-" I refuted instantly
"You knew I loved you."
"You came to me, again and again, you let me touch you, You let me mend what was torn."
"You didn't have to know," she says. "You just had to need me."
This is worse, this is so much worse, because she's right.
I needed to be adored. I needed someone to see me. And she was there, always there. And I never asked why...
"You don't have to chase something that leaves anymore," she murmurs.
"You have me," Her hand smooths over mine, I look at my hands as she caresses it.
These are the hands she wanted. These are the hands that let her stitch and mend and touch without ever asking why.
I lower them to my sides, denying her any more of me.
"Where is she?" I ask.
Yet Rosalind's expression doesn't change and completely ignores my question.
"Tell me where Isabelle is."
"Not yet," she whispers, just loud enough for me to catch "You're not ready."
"I'm standing literally right here, with the evidence of what you did on my table, I believe that I'm rea-."
"You're still looking at me like I'm a monster."
Her voice is soft, as if my actions wounded her, then it flattened.
"I told you. I'm not a monster. I'm the woman who loves you."
She steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the lavender water she uses. Close enough that I have to tilt my chin down to meet her eyes.
"When you look at me as such-"
Her nail trails down my chest, over my suit, following the line of the lapel.
"That's not going to happen."
She doesn't flinch, doesnt frown. Instead, her lips curve upward.
"Then she stays where she is."
My jaw tightens. I can't say anything to that.
"You have time," Rosalind whispers. "I'm very patient."
"Get out," I say, my voice flat, empty. "Get out of my apartment."
A long silence, then she walks to the door, opens it, pauses with her hand on the frame.
"Goodnight, Felix."
The door closes.
I stand there for a long time.
Then, slowly, I pick up the jacket from the table. My fingers fumble with the sleeves. The fabric whispers against my skin, then I drop it on the floor.
I should burn it.
I should tear out the lining.
I should do something.
Instead, I slide down the wall until I am sitting on the floor, staring at the empty space where she stood.
I sit on the floor until morning.
I do not sleep. I can't
I do not touch the jacket. It sickens me even just looking at it.
Instead I try to remember when I became someone who could be loved like this, and I cannot remember.
And that is the worst part.