Phillipa didn't know why she had asked a fortune teller if Rose could love her. The question, a desperate whisper torn from the depths of her soul, felt both foolish and profoundly necessary. Had she hoped Rose, lingering just outside the velvet curtain of the small, incense-filled booth, would overhear? Or had she truly believed that the worn, shuffled cards held the answer to the question that had kept her awake for countless, agonizing nights, painting shadows under her eyes and a constant ache in her chest?
The air in the tiny shop was thick with the scent of sandalwood and forgotten dreams. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the gloom, illuminating the fortune teller's gnarled hands as they meticulously laid out the Tarot. Phillipa watched, mesmerized and terrified, as the cards formed a cryptic tapestry of her yearning. Her heart, a heavy stone in her ribcage, began to swell with a fragile, almost unbearable hope when the woman, her voice a low, gravelly murmur, finally spoke."If she has let you into her world… if she’s smiled just for you, paused to listen when you spoke, stayed near when she could’ve walked away… then yes. She can love a girl like you. I could always ask the cards…." Phillipa leaned forward, her breath catching. Hope, incandescent and terrifying, flared within her. Yes, Rose could love her. Perhaps the cards were confirming her deepest desire. Perhaps this was the universe's way of finally granting her peace. It was precisely this burgeoning, desperate hope that made her so utterly taken aback, so completely disarmed, when it was Rose's voice, not the fortune teller's, that finally broke through the mystical haze.
“I’ve been trying to find the right words for this,” Rose's voice, soft and hesitant, was like a gentle hand on her shoulder, pulling her back from the precipice of her own anxieties. Phillipa turned slowly, her vision still slightly blurred by unshed tears and the lingering scent of incense. Rose stood there, her eyes wide and earnest, a faint blush dusting her cheeks.
Phillipa listened to every word that tumbled from Rose's lips, each one a precious, fragile gift. Her mind, usually a chaotic storm of doubts and insecurities, became a quiet, attentive space, absorbing every syllable. But when the words,“I’m in love with you,” finally fell, a soft, almost imperceptible whisper, Phillipa couldn't hold it back any longer. A deep, guttural sob escaped her, raw and involuntary. Her hands, trembling, flew to her face, trying to catch the hot, anxious tears that now streamed freely. It was the release of weeks, perhaps months, of pent-up anxiety, the crushing fear of rejection that had haunted her even in this moment, a moment where it seemed utterly impossible.
She continued to listen to Rose, her voice a steady anchor in the swirling chaos of Phillipa's emotions. Rose spoke of shared laughter, of quiet moments, of a connection that transcended friendship. And as Rose spoke, Phillipa felt seen. Truly seen. For the first time in her life, she felt as though someone had looked past the carefully constructed walls, beyond the witty retorts and the guarded expressions, and truly understood the vulnerable, yearning soul beneath. And of course, it was Rose who saw her that way. It was Rose who had moved her, who had taught her to appreciate the delicate beauty in the mundane, who had inspired her creativity and filled her with new ideas, new ways of seeing the world.
"I love you so much," phillipa whispered again, her voice thick with emotion, stepping closer. Phillipa, feeling impossibly small and vulnerable despite her usual composure, clung onto the younger girl, burying her face in Rose's shoulder. "I want to hold you, to carry your weight and your worries, to be the one you love and love alone." It was a selfish plea, she knew, a possessive declaration born of profound longing. But she needed Rose to know this, needed her to understand the depth of the offering: her heart, completely and utterly, and her heart alone.
And then, in the hushed sanctity of that small, strange shop, they kissed. It was not a sudden, passionate embrace, but a slow, tender meeting of lips, a gentle exploration that felt both impossibly beautiful and utterly magical. It was the culmination of unspoken desires, of lingering glances and silent understandings, a promise whispered on the breath. Phillipa pulled Rose closer, her arms wrapping tightly around her, as if to anchor them both in this perfect, suspended moment.
"Please," Phillipa whispered against Rose's lips, her voice raw with emotion, "please be my lover, be my girlfriend. I'll promise I'll make you happy. I want to make you happy. I want us. All of us." The words were a plea, a vow, and a desperate, hopeful vision of a future that, just moments ago, had seemed an impossible dream. Now, with Rose in her arms, it felt like the only possible reality.
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