Chapter 2


ROSINA


SOMEONE HAS BEEN watching me. I feel it, even as I sit in the corner booth with Lauren talking about my future husband and our wedding. I don’t know if I’m being paranoid. As a kid, I had a wild imagination. Once in high school, I swore to the principal and my math teacher I had seen a ghost in the female lavatory. After my parents were consulted, they sent me to the school’s therapist. I told her the same story, but she didn’t believe me. She even said I made it all up to seek attention.

I went through a series of sessions with her. They were very boring and unnerving. After a laborious evaluation, the therapist said I imagined it, which was a result of the late-night horror movies I had been watching. My parents stopped me from watching my favorite series, and I hated them for ruining what made my childhood days fun. I still hate them, but not as much as before. When I grew up and went to college, I finished the horror franchise.

But I swear I’m not making this one up. Someone is indeed watching me. I feel like I’m being stalked. I haven’t shared the feeling with anyone yet, not even Evans. Possibly because I think I may be imagining it due to my experience. It’s becoming incessant, and I fear it might escalate to reality.

“Rosina?”

“Yes.”

I glance up and stare at the brunette sitting across from me and clasping her slender fingers around the mug. My eyes trace the tip of her brown hair, down to the knee-length gray dress she’s wearing. I’m still with Lauren. What were we talking about before my thoughts drowned me?

She looks blankly at my face. “Are you even listening to me?”

I blink rapidly. “Yes. I am. What did you say?”

She frowns. “See? You weren’t listening to me. What are you thinking about?”

Sometimes, I hate spending time with Lauren. She’s so meticulous and calculative. I hate the way she keeps track of everything. Why did I even meet her?

“Nothing. You were saying something about erm... the wedding gown.”

Her frown deepens and the dimples at the corners of her lips show accurately. I try to delete the picture of an angry Lauren from my mind, but I can’t. Her olive-toned face still haunts my vision.

“No, Rosy. We weren’t talking about the gown.”

It’s my turn to get angry. “Don’t call me Rosy. You know I hate that name.”

“Because it reminds you of rose flowers?”

I pout, “Roses...