He had his eyes closed as he spoke, and when he didn't hear her respond for a beat he wondered if this had somehow disrupted whatever the curse was doing — was the real Rosalie watching him quietly? Or was she saying something that he still couldn't hear, because the curse was blocking things out? Silence was preferable to hearing her yell at him, he decided. Silence was preferable to noise. But then the silence was disrupted by the noise of someone else, and he couldn't help but open his eyes in surprise — just in time to see her mother in the doorway, before the two of them bustled away. The look in her eyes in that moment would stay with him long after she left.
That's not real, he told himself as he stood in the now-empty room. He had to keep reminding himself of it, because it felt real, watching her leave — real and heart-wrenching. But that was by design; that was the curse trying to drive him away from someone who would want to listen, to empathize, to help him. Rosalie was here. He had to get through to the other side of this, and then he'd see her again. The shouting, her departure, the sight of her ring on the floor at his feet — none of that was real.
I wish I could feel her hand in mine, he thought. He was still convinced it was there, despite the evidence of his senses, but it was hard to feel it.
"I love you," he said quietly, to the empty air where he supposed Rosalie probably still was. "I know I already said that, and I know you probably want to know about — everything else. You want to hear about the curse and what it means, but — but it's hard to talk about, and none of that really matters anymore. The thing that matters, the only thing that matters, is that I love you, and you saved me. It's all behind me now," he said, trying to inject a note of certainty in his voice that was hard to sincerely feel when he still couldn't feel her hand in his, and when he was still picturing the expression on her imagined-face when her mother had rushed her out the door. "It's all behind us now."
He waited. The silence did not surprise him, but as it stretched on it did worry him. How long after having aggravated the curse did he need to wait until his senses would reset? This felt — abnormally long. It had always been limited to a comment or two before.
Eventually he reached out to where he had hoped she was, pawing uselessly at the empty air once, twice. He looked towards the door and nearly cried out in shock as a shadow flitted across the threshold just beyond it. He hadn't seen shadows that close since —
Ezra looked down at the ground, where the ring still glinted in the same place it had fallen on the carpet. Too consistent for a hallucination, he thought, the tone of the observation somehow clinically detached and mournful at once. I should have known. If I'd imagined it the ring would have moved when I looked down again.
He knelt and picked the ring up gingerly, as though he were worried it would break if he handled it too roughly. But it was solid between his fingertips. He could hear people talking in the dining room — he didn't know how long they had been talking, and their voices were too low to pick out any specific phrases, but he knew at once they were talking about him. There was something in the tone, hushed in a way that normal after-dinner chatter wasn't. They were talking about how his fiancee had just left him. They had all seen it happen. He reached up to touch his cheek where she'd slapped him, and his skin stung to the touch.
I can't do this without you, he thought wildly, fiercely, miserably.
That's not real, he told himself as he stood in the now-empty room. He had to keep reminding himself of it, because it felt real, watching her leave — real and heart-wrenching. But that was by design; that was the curse trying to drive him away from someone who would want to listen, to empathize, to help him. Rosalie was here. He had to get through to the other side of this, and then he'd see her again. The shouting, her departure, the sight of her ring on the floor at his feet — none of that was real.
I wish I could feel her hand in mine, he thought. He was still convinced it was there, despite the evidence of his senses, but it was hard to feel it.
"I love you," he said quietly, to the empty air where he supposed Rosalie probably still was. "I know I already said that, and I know you probably want to know about — everything else. You want to hear about the curse and what it means, but — but it's hard to talk about, and none of that really matters anymore. The thing that matters, the only thing that matters, is that I love you, and you saved me. It's all behind me now," he said, trying to inject a note of certainty in his voice that was hard to sincerely feel when he still couldn't feel her hand in his, and when he was still picturing the expression on her imagined-face when her mother had rushed her out the door. "It's all behind us now."
He waited. The silence did not surprise him, but as it stretched on it did worry him. How long after having aggravated the curse did he need to wait until his senses would reset? This felt — abnormally long. It had always been limited to a comment or two before.
Eventually he reached out to where he had hoped she was, pawing uselessly at the empty air once, twice. He looked towards the door and nearly cried out in shock as a shadow flitted across the threshold just beyond it. He hadn't seen shadows that close since —
Ezra looked down at the ground, where the ring still glinted in the same place it had fallen on the carpet. Too consistent for a hallucination, he thought, the tone of the observation somehow clinically detached and mournful at once. I should have known. If I'd imagined it the ring would have moved when I looked down again.
He knelt and picked the ring up gingerly, as though he were worried it would break if he handled it too roughly. But it was solid between his fingertips. He could hear people talking in the dining room — he didn't know how long they had been talking, and their voices were too low to pick out any specific phrases, but he knew at once they were talking about him. There was something in the tone, hushed in a way that normal after-dinner chatter wasn't. They were talking about how his fiancee had just left him. They had all seen it happen. He reached up to touch his cheek where she'd slapped him, and his skin stung to the touch.
I can't do this without you, he thought wildly, fiercely, miserably.
![[Image: 5WWaDR1.png]](https://i.imgur.com/5WWaDR1.png)