Her Arrival

CHAPTER 46| Anonymous.

A smile meets my mouth, and I fall back into my white bean bag, also wrapping a linen fuzzy blanket around me closely, trapping in the heat. I shiver slightly and. I'm sure the tip of my nose is red, but catching a cold is all worth it. Always worth it.

My hand wraps around the warm mug of thick, creamy hot chocolate, and I bring it close to my lips, let the warm trails of steam hit my face. Marshmallows and whipped cream flatten it. Hot chocolate has to be one of the best drinks in the winter― if not the best. Hot chocolate and a mince pie.

Oh, I'm going to miss British Christmas dinners and desserts. Roast dinners and puddings.. mince pies, trifles, Victoria sponge cakes.

Now I'm just sad. They probably sell them in some bakery here, but it's not the same. Never the same though. London food just hits― London traditional food at least.

Someone barging in interrupts my thoughts. Always someone.

"There's a package for you, Azzy," Elliott waltz in as if he didn't just abruptly barge in here without knocking.

"Is there?" My face brightens, I instantly forget about what he just did and I shoot up, keeping the blanket wrapped around me, squeal and run out, literally unable to walk normally as excitement pumps around my body.

"What is it?" Elliott catches up to me, eyebrows knitted.

"My parcel," I sing song, skipping happily.

"Yeah, no shit. What's in it?" He deadpans, souring my mood in the slightest bit.

"The machete that I'm going to use to fucking slice your throat."

"Woah calm down there― let's be civilized and friendly here," He breaths out, a hint of fear laced with his tone.

"Shoo if you really want to be civilized," My expression should give away the fact I'm dead serious.

"I'm going, I'm going," His hands are up as he backs away cautiously, most likely faking fear.

My body turns back around and I start skipping happily, humming the rhythm to a song I don't remember the name of. A large grin takes over me.

Eventually, I reach the front door, see a box on the mini coffee table. A box that's wrapped in gold and black wrapping paper, a pretty, sparkly, golden ribbon tied into a bow at the top. A box. With a nametag― a plain, white one.

Cautiously, I take a few steps forward but still keep a reasonable distance, just incase there's something radioactive. You can never be too sure.

'For azalea' Is written in cursive. Perfect cursive, actually. My mind betrays me for a second there and I almost, just almost think it's from Matteo. It's not though. He writes in print, perfect structure of his letters, never once meeting one another.

I shrug my shoulders, grasping the box in my hand with a grin plastered onto my face, then, I repeat the jolly movement of skipping down the fairy-light-lit corridors.

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For the time being, the box has been tossed away somewhere in my room. Haven't done much with it since decorating my room even further is always a priority. I plan to make this look like Christmas itself, maybe be featured in the national dictionary for being a total representation of Christmas.

During my renovation, Christmas songs has been playing in the background, to which I pranced around and sung along loudly to during the first few minutes. Then it became tiring and I was too invested in untangling some stuff.

After a long, long while, I'm done with my architectural antics and now I have basically nothing to do. Think someone else told me I had another package waiting for me downstairs but I'm too exhausted to move a bone right now. My brain isn't working with my muscles, I think it's snoozing. My bed feels like literal clouds right now. Super comfy, warm, embracing. But I'm not here to fall asleep, it's only 8pm and I still have yet to open the box.