RIDDLE. DISCONTINUED

➹ chapter thirty three

33 | stranger

In that moment, many things crossed her mind – but she wasn't too sure which one was clinging in her mind the most. Was it the black suit, clad elegantly to his body, in such a way that it was sure to be sinful; was it his blue eyes, scanning her shamelessly yet gleaming with a sparkle of uncertainty; or was it his deep voice, sounding like a bittersweet melody to her ears?

Maybe it was all of it at once or maybe it was neither. There was only a certain amount of accuracy someone could get when Tom was leaning towards her, offering a handshake.

Her hand found his in the split second that took her to recognize his presence. He seemed to tease her, shaking it only gently, seeming more like he was hugging her hand than anything else. Despite that gesture, it was on the exact moment that their skin connected that she noticed a small, barely visible frown crossing his face.

You screwed up, didn't you, Tom?

Her step father glanced between them for a second, before going back inside the house and calling Elise, her mother – which left them alone, staring at each other with their hands still on connected.

"You can let go, Thomas." Merope said, glancing down, her tone sounding much more cold than she had ever intended to.

At her words, he quickly jerked his hand back and ran it through his hair, untidying the perfectly styled state it was previously in. "I—"

She didn't let him finish, obviously worried that he may say something that might set her off next to her parents. "Not here, not now. We'll talk later," her voice lowered to a whisper, "my mum is probably listening."

Said that, Merope pushed him into the living room and closed the front door. As she had predicted, Elise was already there, sitting on the sofa with little Rosa on her lap. Once they entered, she quickly stood up, pretending to be surprised at the sight of the boy.

"Wow, I didn't know my daughter had such handsome friends." Is the first thing she says to Tom, and honestly, it makes Merope want to tear her own hair apart. At least she didn't say boyfriend.

He's quick to reply, putting on his best fake smile – not unlike the one he usually gives to professors. "Oh, you're flattering me too much. You seem so young, ma'am. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Merope just drops herself harshly into the sofa, guessing that it would be a long compliment competition. It reminded her of school and her the diary she kept about Riddle. How she used to stay a little behind just to listen what he had to said to the professors after class, and how every single time his words were soaking with politeness.

Was it better then? Was knowing only the hard shell that Tom had laid out for himself really that good? You can ask me if it was more simple and I'd say yes in a heartbeat, but I'm also sure that it wasn't better.

No matter how twisted something is, knowledge and understanding will always be better when it comes to people. It won't hurt you if you don't know many recipes using your favorite fruit, but you will surely feel hurt when you realize you don't know much about someone you care or are curious about.

Take that unusually pretty person that held the door for you with a smile – even if it's for just that brief second, you wonder about the person. Is it usually this nice? How old might he be? Is he single?

And when you go through that door with nothing more than a 'Thank you', you feel empty. Imagine that type of emptiness multiplied by a million. A million of secrets that Merope can't figure out about the person she loves.