The pages whispered to Her. They told Her tales of beings with stars for eyes, and the midnight sky or spun gold for hair. So perfect; so shiny; so fake. (She wonders vaguely about His hair. Surely a colour like that wasn't normal?)
The screen flickered. It showed Her reels of cliches recycled past use. Boy meets Girl. Face, meet Palm.
They even had a day to celebrate it! She opens her door to find a regurgitated mess of flowers, chocolates, poetry, and red and pink hearts. Lots of red and pink hearts. She's seen it all before-knows it like the back of Her hand. The flowers are fake, the chocolates filled with nuts (And now She thinks she understands why He loathes them so much, but this is the only time She won't complain. If He doesn't want them, well...more for Her!),the poetry is nothing more than a cheap card. The Neon pink scars Her eyes and the Red? Blech!
("Scorpius," She calls out in annoyance as His face grins out of her fireplace "stop giving your admirers my address! If you don't want the gifts tell them, or at least give them Al's address!" She cuts out the connection, feeling as though Her indignation was undermined by the chocolate bar She was munching on.)
"...You may kiss the bride!" "...Aaaand your guests can commence betting on how long you'll last together." She mutters, kicking off Her shoes. Her feet hurt. ( She's never dancing with Him again, He's got more left feet than a Grimluren millipede, and nothing-not even friendly courtesy- will convince Her to venture onto that floor once more.)
Don't ever talk to Her about love. She'll tell you that your beautiful forever is really never. That his promises are lies. That her kisses won't spark fireworks. She'll tell you love doesn't exist: that She doesn't believe in it.
But that's not true-not really.
Because She wants to. (She really, truly, desperately, wants to believe in it. To believe that She has a chance with Him. And He hopes it's enough when He makes up HJs mind to kiss Rose for the first time.)