open starter ft. anyone (capping at 0/3) , at kensington gardens.
flowers. so elegant, so composed. theodosia had long admired their effortless graceâthe way a rose held itself, unfurling in quiet confidence, never needing to prove its worth. there was no desperation in its bloom, no awareness of its beauty, and yet it captivated all the same. she often wished she possessed such poiseâsuch silent allure. instead, she found that her thorns far too often betrayed her. sharp words, unguarded glances, a tongue too quick when stirred. and though others might claim she could not help itâthat it was simply her temperamentâshe knew better. for she could, when she wished, be as silent as snowfall. she simply chose not to be.
but lately, there was nothing left to say. life, since returning home from the hospital wards, had hollowed her in strange, quiet ways. her spirit, once lively and keen, had softenedâdulled by long nights under oil lamps and the scent of blood and ash. she no longer sought to charm a room or to make herself known. she had grown weary of being more than what was expected. and so, she settled. she stood beside her husband at gatherings and let others speak. smiled when spoken to. laughed gently at the appropriate times. she was content, or something like it. at least, that was what she told herself.
perhaps, then, she was more like a rose than she had once believed. beautiful, yesâbut not untouched. admired, yet not approached. something to be seen, but never truly understood. something planted, and expected to stay where it bloomed.
still, she could not help but love them. there was comfort in their presenceâa kind of kinship. she walked through the garden alone, trailing gloved fingers over the edges of petals and leaves, her thoughts quiet but not idle. when she reached the rose bush, she knelt with careful grace, breathing in the scent as though it might fill the hollowness inside her with something sweet and lasting.
âtheyâre so lovely,â she murmured, the words barely more than a breath, spoken to no one but the blooms. their color, deep and velvety, reminded her of old silk and ink-stained letters. they did not demand attentionâthey simply were.
it was not until she straightened that she felt the eyes upon her. not unkind, but present.
startled only for a moment, she turned her head and offered a soft, apologetic smileâever the lady, even in her solitude.
âi often wish i had a green thumb,â she said lightly, her tone carrying a soft lilt, as if to cover the vulnerability of her earlier words. âi would keep rows and rows of flowersâroses and lilacs, forget-me-nots, perhaps even violets. wouldnât you?â she tilted her head slightly, studying the newcomer with gentle curiosity, the kind that masked deeper questions she would never dare ask aloud.
stormborns
dailybridgerton
izzy806
areudirty
janainaart
theartofmadeline
