the 1 | chaennie

46. Clean

The drought was the very worst, ah ah
When the flowers that we'd grown together died of thirst
It was months, and months of back and forth, ah ah
You're still all over me like a wine-stained dress I can't wear anymore
Hung my head, as I lost the war, and the sky turned black like a perfect storm

Rain came pouring down when I was drowning
That's when I could finally breathe
And by morning, gone was any trace of you,
I think I am finally clean

There was nothing left to do, ah ah
When the butterflies turned to dust, they covered my whole room
So I punched a hole in the roof, ah ah
Let the flood carry away all my pictures of you
The water filled my lungs,
I screamed so loud but no one heard a thing

-

"Will it make a difference do you think?" Nayeon asked, her voice a little thick as she looked at Rosie with mournful sympathy, pitying the desperate words that would lead to another desperate attempt.

"It'll make all the difference in the world," Rosie murmured. "To me, at the very least. Each time I say it, it means just as much as the time before. I never said it enough back then."

"Surely she knew though. She knew you loved her."

With a choked laugh, Rosie rubbed above her eyebrow with her thumb, "yeah, well, when you reject someone's proposal, it doesn't really give off that image. And I was so busy with my tour then that I didn't really have the time to dwell on it all. To get to the point to call her and apologise. I'm afraid that didn't come for a long, long time."

-

Her birthday passed without much cause for celebration. She was in Melbourne on the day, with a show scheduled for the following evening, which left Rosie to spend it how she wanted. She spent it sitting by herself in a narrow teahouse, tucking in beside a vegan café and a dingy bar, reading a book by Murakami and listening to the synth beat of muffled music seep through the thin walls of the place.

She sat and drank green tea out of a steaming little glass and read for five hours, tucked into a booth in the back corner, leaning against the cold brick wall, white paint peeling away in places to expose the red clay beneath. The bench was wooden with a small cushion and sunlight cut a narrow path down the centre of the place, bathing it in yellow light which reflected off the white surfaces with blinding brightness. It was summer in Australia, the air parched and still and a fan clattered at the back of the shop, fighting a losing battle against the wave of heat that rushed in every time someone opened the door.

It was peaceful, if a little too hot for Rosie's liking, but it was the first birthday she could ever remember spending alone. Truly alone. There was almost a sense of solace in it, the comforting presence of just herself, her thoughts and the ambience of the teahouse to soothe her. No bodyguards, no managers, no one but herself. She could've stayed there all day, but once her book was finished and the third pot of tea had gone to cold dregs at the bottom, she paid and stepped outside.

It was late afternoon but the sun showed no sign of setting and Rosie crossed the street to the small park, walking beneath the eucalyptus trees as pigeons pecked at the cracked path and crows cawed in the trees. The sky was cerulean and the air smelled of pine and baking asphalt. She walked for an hour, around and around the small patch of trees and benches, before she called her driver to come and pick her up. It was the last moment of peaceful solitude she remembered having for a long while.

The was a break in her schedule for Christmas and New Year, spent in the bitter cold of London, walking miserable grey streets as sheets of rain dampened the sidewalk and Christmas lights lit up the city. The endless drama of her family, of her own life, kept her busy with crowds gathering wherever she went and snide comments exchanged between her parents over the table at Christmas dinner. They were joined by Irene and some of Alice's friends and Rosie picked at her roast beef and potatoes in relative silence.