She's always been the perfect daughter. She's rigid, every hair in place, every word the right one, and she's cold, so cold.
She supposes there's a reason why the word rigid is inside of frigid – because after all, there are no accidents.
A touch of her fingertip is like a sliver of ice. Cold. So cold.
She beat her emotions away – after all, what's the point of loving? If you love someone, it's unlikely they'll return your love. And even if they do, you'll only lose them.
She traded her sorrows long ago. Pathos for logos, love for logic, insecurity for ice.
Rose is the only one whose cheeks will never blush warm with either pleasure or shame. Rose is the only fire-haired girl with a frigid heart.
Cold. So cold.