Red String

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The New Year has come, leaving behind another series of sad and unbearable days, and bringing in new and bright adventures to live.

Feeling optimistic is the only thing you can do to overcome an obstacle that has a name: February.

Her month.

Like January, it is the marker of a new era, the blank page you have to fill, and whether you like it or not, it tells you to face the unknown and let the past behind.

But it is so difficult to forget about your problems and moving on when one of the main causes of your sadness is working with you all day. When the sound of her voice follows you; when her British talk thrills your heart; when she simply lives.

Finn groans, his eyes stuck on the electronic device in front of him.

It's a dull Saturday.

His body is slouched on the sofa of his apartment, in a pair of comfy sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt. A lazy foot is wrapped around colorful sock and it dangles from the couch, rhythmically tapping at the sound of the notes of Twist and Shout.

Ferris Bueller's Day Off is playing on his flat screen, but he is watching it rather passively. Neither his favorite films can help to distract him from his mean reads.

All of his attention is directed to the texts Violet has sent him all day.

Incredibly, the couple have figured out the mess happened in December.

Once again, he thinks about his birthday.

The night spent at Millie's house was an unforgivable mistake.

Finn knows it as he turns off the engine of his car and stares at the cold bricked wall of the underground parking lot of his apartment building.

Everything that has happened, from the moment he carried her petite body in his arms, to the stolen gaze of her naked breast; from the comfort of his words and strokes to his fucked up way of caring about her. A huge, gigantic, unforgivable disaster.

He drags himself out of his Audi, locks it with his remote key and walks up the stairs, reaching the middle ground again. He sucks the polluting air in his lungs and the chaos of that typical Christmas Eve.

The usual people come and go in Ponce City Market, the mall under his luxury flat, and he begs the God above that no one stops him for a picture or for a pointless chit-chat. He really doesn't feel to fake smiles today, nor being nice.

He runs to the elevator, hiding inside of it and mumbling the right words to say to Violet. He was ready for a messy fight, screams, broken plates, her dramatic (and justified) scenes.

After all, who wouldn't be upset about their boyfriend running to his ex in the middle of a party?

Still self-absorbed by his own fears and unspoken apologizes, he leans to the entrance door of his apartment, twists the key and gets in, expecting anything but the thing he sees: Violet is in there, the living room is perfectly clean and everything is at its place.

He looks at his doorbell to make sure he didn't mistake his flat for another one.

Without looking at him, Violet hides a smug, "Come in. I cleaned it this morning."

"Oh." This is all what he says.

The tension is palpable, and she is unusually calm – perhaps, too calm. This is not the Violet he knows.

She snorts, "You can come closer, I won't kill you."

She's a hot mess while sitting on the kitchen island, a Marlboro stuck between her sinuous fingers as she stares out of the window: she is wearing a mint laced lingerie and a pair of high waist Calvin Klein shorts as her thick dark curls gently falls on her back.

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