Amber Like a Rose

February 4, 11:46 a.m.

I look up from my book to meet his eyes across the room. He smiles at me, his amber eyes twinkling, as he lifts his hand to give me a little wave.

I shut my book and leave the library without saying a word.

February 6, 3:22 p.m.

A dense layer of fog hangs low in the air as I walk briskly along the sidewalk. Invisible raindrops gently tickle my skin, a prelude to the impending downpour. I stop at a spot protected from the rain and dial my mother’s number.

“Mom? It’s starting to rain, can you come pick me up?” I ask. “I’m on the corner of Seventh and Queen.” I hang up after she agrees and lean back on the wall behind me to wait. The street is quieter than usual; not a single car in sight. A raven lands on the ground beside me, his dark wings damp from the rain. I dig a small granola bar out of my backpack and break off a few chunks to toss to him.

A flicker of movement across the street catches my eye, and suddenly he’s there, sitting on the steps to a quaint gift shop with a black umbrella held above his head. His gaze, tinged with nostalgia, is fixed on me, and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking.

A part of me wants to go over there and confront him about it, but my mom’s car pulls up in front of me before I can. I climb into the passenger seat and watch him become smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until he disappears entirely.

February 7, 5:02 p.m.

I lie restlessly awake in bed, the soft glow of moonlight filtering through my curtains. His beautiful amber eyes echo in my mind, a persistent enigma that refuses to disappear.

The bedroom door creaks open, and I know it’s him before I even see his face.

“Hey,” he says calmly. I roll my eyes and pull myself out of bed, taking a seat at the desk to begin organizing my books.

“Go away,” I tell him without turning around. A few seconds pass, and despite my dismissal, his vigilant gaze lingers.

“I like what you’ve done with the place.” He remarks, quietly looking around the room. “The posters are a nice touch.”

“You hate posters.”

“Yeah, but they look good in here.” Silence envelopes the room like a plush velvet curtain, a hush so profound that even the whisper of shadows leave it undisturbed.

Finally, I turn to meet his eyes. “What do you want, Cal?” I ask. “Why are you following me?”

“I just wanna talk,” he insists, a sombre expression setting over his face.

“Okay,” I say, setting down the book in my hand and pivoting my chair to face him. “Talk.”

He exhales and shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, that wistful, nostalgic look has returned. “I want to talk about what happened on New Years Eve.” He says finally, his voice firm, demanding answers. The question catches me off guard, and I lean back in my seat as a memory flashes in my mind; fireworks painting the night sky like bullets, exploding into a million colours as a pair of gentle lips softly caress my skin.

“That was nothing,” I mutter, evading his eyes.

“It wasn’t nothing, Teya. It was…” he sighs and quickly changes the subject. “And what about what happened after?” His voice is quiet, almost a whisper.

That part I don’t remember. I’ve blocked it out of my mind entirely.

A hush falls over us again, and the area between us seems to grow dauntingly small. In the agonizing pause that follows, the room seems suspended in space, as if time itself is holding its breath.

“Why are you here?” I ask quietly. “And why now, of all times? I haven’t seen you in over a month, and frankly, I wasn’t planning on seeing you ever again —”

“I know you miss me,” he says quietly.

“What?” I ask with wide eyes, my heart racing in my chest.

He laughs faintly, running a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah, that’s right, I see you visit my grave every day. Admit it.” Suddenly, a memory resurfaces — rain drumming against a windshield, the screech of tires, a Bruno Mars song playing on the radio. Cal’s eyes, wide with terror, as he slams his foot into the breaks.

The room falls into a heavy silence, only broken by the soft hum of the night outside. His words hang in the air between us, a revelation that sends shivers down my spine.

“You’re not making this any easier by being here, you know,” I whisper as tears swim in my eyes. He steps toward me, and although it might just be my imagination, I can almost feel the warmth of his body beside mine.

“I know. And I’ll leave you alone, I swear. I just…I had to see you one last time.” He reaches forward, and for a split second I think that he might hold my hand, until he pulls away.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” I tell him. “I never have. But I can’t deal with you being…”

“Dead?” He finishes, and I swallow hard. Hearing him say it out loud like that so easily makes my stomach churn.

“I can’t deal with you being dead unless I do. Unless I hate you with every fibre of my being, and I don’t stop hating you until the day I die.”

“And what would happen if you didn’t hate me?” He asks curiously. This question I cannot answer.

February 14, 7:55 p.m.

Valentines Day has draped the city in hues of pink and red. Heart-shaped decorations adorn every corner, and everywhere I look there seem to be couples walking hand-in-hand.

Rainwater drips from rooftops as I make my way down the side of the road. The sun is dipping below the mountains, casting a pinkish glow over the pavement like a pastel painting come to life. There are no cars on the street tonight.

As I pass by the gift shop where I’d seen Cal the week before, a person standing by the door catches my eye and I stop short. I don’t see him for long; a blur of dark hair, the gleam of olive skin, and a pair of glittering amber eyes before he disappears into the shop.

Without thinking, I rush through the door after him, letting a soft breeze in with me. The bell above the door chimes once, announcing my arrival as the scent of rosemary bombards my nostrils. I scan the room for his familiar face, though all I’m met with is the puzzled gaze of strangers.

God, maybe I’m just going crazy, I think to myself, turning back around without saying a word.

As I exit the shop, though, I notice a solitary rose placed on the bench beside me, its petals embellished with dew. I pick it up hesitantly, admiring the intricate beauty of the flower. There’s no note with it, but I already know who it’s from.

In the quiet of the evening, I find myself drawn to a nearby park. The city, bathed in the soft glow of twilight, creates a serene backdrop for the tumultuous thoughts swirling within me. Clutching the rose gently in my hand, I settle under a large cedar tree that seems to be the only remaining patch of sunlight. A flock of geese pass somewhere overhead, their honks echoing through the undisturbed air as they journey towards destinations unknown.

I lean my head back against the tree trunk as amber eyes flash in my mind, a memory that I’m starting to realize will never fade. The rose, now slightly wilted, burns with his spirit, his whispers, and his heart. I pick the petals off one by one and then silently let them go, watching them scatter like fragments of a love story lost in the wind.

As I leave the park’s tranquil silence, I carry with me the weight of a rose, its invisible thorns digging deep into the ache of my haunted heart.