Later that afternoon, Aiden found Rosalie waiting by the library entrance, a thick textbook tucked under her arm, her quiet confidence unmistakable. She didn't smile, but her eyes held a spark that was hard to read.
"Prêt à commencer?" she asked without any small talk.
(Ready to get started)
Aiden shrugged, slipping his backpack off one shoulder. "Ouais, je suppose. Pas vraiment le type 'partenaire d'étude'."
(Yeah, I guess. Not the 'study buddy' type.)
Rosalie's lips curled into a faint smile. "Moi non plus. Mais Mme Hoff ne semble pas se soucier de ce que nous voulons."
(Neither am I. But Mrs. Hoff doesn't seem to care what we want.)
They settled into a corner table, the buzz of the ceiling lights around them fading into background noise. Rosalie pulled out her notes and opened her laptop without waiting for Aiden.
They had been sitting in silence for nearly twenty minutes. Aiden was slouched in his chair, fingers tapping restlessly against the edge of the table. Rosalie, perfectly still, wrote with practiced ease, barely acknowledging his growing irritation.
Finally, he sighed and pulled out one earbud. "C'est stupide," he muttered. "Je pensais que c'était censé être au sujet de la putain de Révolution française."
(This is stupid) (I thought it was supposed to be about the damn French Revolution)
Rosalie didn't look up. "Ce n'est pas"
(It isn't.)
"Quoi?"
(What)
She calmly flipped a page in her notebook. "Ce n'est pas une question de Révolution. C'est juste un poème. Quelque chose de significatif. Sur l'amour."
(It's not about the Revolution. It's just a poem. Something meaningful. About love.)
Aiden stared at her. "Tu rigoles ? J'ai lu sur Robespierre sans raison ?"
(Are you kidding me? I've been reading about Robespierre for no reason?)
"Clairement." (Clearly)
He groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. "Mon Dieu, je déteste les projets de groupe."
(God, I hate group projects.)
Rosalie set her pen down and finally met his eyes. "Alors ne le considère pas comme un projet de groupe. Pense à cela comme à une conversation. Avec de la tension. C'est là que vit la poésie."
(Then don't think of it as a group project. Think of it as a conversation. With tension. That's where poetry lives.)
He blinked. "C'est... étrangement poétique.."
(That's… weirdly poetic.)
"Bon," she said. "Alors tu es à moitié chemin"
(Then you're halfway there.)
He scoffed. "Whatever. So what now? We just pick some random angle on love and write a Hallmark card?"
Rosalie's expression barely changed, but her voice was cool and assured. "Nous le partageons. Deux perspectives. Je prends la haine. Tu prends l'amour."
(We split it. Two perspectives. I take hate. You take love.)
He narrowed his eyes. "Tu es sérieux. (You're serious?)
"Sérieusement." (Dead serious)
"D'accord," he snapped. "Je prendrai l'amour. Pas que je sache quoi que ce soit à ce sujet."
(Fine) (I'll take love. Not that I know anything about it)
Something flickered across her face, but it vanished just as quickly. "Peut-être est-ce pourquoi cela fonctionnera. Écris à partir de son absence."
(Maybe that's why it'll work. Write from the lack of it.)
He looked away, jaw tightening. "C'est ce que je prévoyais de toute façon."
(That's what I was planning anyway)
There was a long silence, heavy but not uncomfortable. Aiden fidgeted, but Rosalie remained as composed as ever, flipping back to her notes.
"Je ne te comprends pas," he muttered, frustrated.
(I don't understand you)
"Tu n'as pas à," she said softly, her eyes on the page. "Écris simplement quelque chose de vrai. Je ferai de même." (You don't have to) (Just write something real.)
Despite himself, something in her voice calmed him — not warm, but grounded. For the first time that day, he stopped fidgeting. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. "D'accord. Mais ne t'attends pas à des fleurs et du soleil."
(Fine. But don't expect flowers and sunshine.)
Rosalie smirked faintly, still writing. "Je n'en rêverais pas."
(I wouldn't dream of it.)