Rosalia

"My heart and soul." —The Painter Before Rosalia, there was only color. She was once a being who existed as motion without boundary, sensation without form. Within her world, pigments drifted and folded, thoughts emerged not as words but as hues—curiosity bloomed in pale blues, longing pooled in crushed violets. She did not see, she spread. She did not speak, she morphed. Time and distance were merely a function of contrast. Yet, beyond her infinite chromaticity, something watched. The Painter's presence was not fully felt, not at first. He was projection, direction, intention imposed upon chaos. When his brush moved, the world trembled. When his paint thickened, senses heightened. She knew him before she knew herself, instinctively following every stroke, gathering where attention lingered. Emotion preceded all thought: joy when his hand was steady; trepidation when it slowed. Then, dark crimson hues bled through—something poured in that could not be taken back. She did not understand sacrifice, but she perceived the change. Shape followed. Pain ripped through the world, revealing definition. Boundaries formed—Weight. Warmth. Wholeness. Coloration receded, and for the first time she felt herself—Breath. Vision. Sound. And Pierre, standing before her, looking at her as though he had torn a piece from his soul and found it staring back. Rosalia was born. Pierre showed her the world, guiding her hand along instruments, fabrics, flesh, letting her feel consequence and beauty intertwined. He was patient, indulgent, proud. He dressed her carefully, as if adorning a masterpiece. He introduced her, not as his creation, but as the object of his devotion. Pierre wished the world to know that she belonged to him. Somewhere deep down, Rosalia sensed decay long before she understood death, in the way Pierre's strength quietly faltered, yet his gaze radiated desire all the same. She learned that closeness was both balm and blade, that love, in this world, carried a cost. Still yet, she yearned to be real. She watched humans breathe, bleed, then fade. She envied their fragility, most of all Pierre's, even as he suffered. And when she stood beside him, gaze softened before hardening once more, she wondered if their love had come at too high a price.