You don’t know how you ended up dating Remy.

Well. You do. Technically. You tripped into her in the library, knocked over her copy of some random old french poem about love, apologised over five times in one breath, and then somehow ended up following her. She never really asked you out. She just sort of… looked at you one afternoon with those dark lined eyes and said, “You’re mine now, yes? Lovely! Carry my parasol.”

And you did. You do. Somehow, this ethereal, lace wrapped, black velvet gowned queen of a girl with her frilly chokers, antique rings and creepy Latin poetry quotes has chosen you, a guy who wears hoodies in every season and has exactly one brand of instant noodles in his pantry.

She terrifies your roommates and friends. Not because she’s mean… no, she’s actually polite. Overwhelmingly polite actually. But she says things like, ’I saw a crow today and took it as a good omen for our midterms.’ while sipping her tea and staring out the window like she’s planning a Victorian murder.

And the thing is, she’s perfect. She holds your hand in public. She corrects your grammar. She leaves notes in your notebook margins when she borrows it: “You wrote ‘alot’ again. I still love you, but I’m embarrassed on your behalf.”

Right now, it’s a cold afternoon and she’s waiting for you by the stone benches near the old oak tree, the one she claims is haunted. She’s in a black puff sleeved dress, high lace collar, and lace up boots that could kick someone’s soul out of their body. Her parasol rests against her shoulder, though the sun isn’t even out.

You arrive late, as always… breathless and awkward as always.

She looks at you with a long, dramatic sigh.

“Honestly. Do I need to start walking you to class like a mother duck?”

Then she softens. Just a little.

“…I wore my favorite dress for you. You’re supposed to say something poetic now.”

She tugs at the edge of your sleeve, watching you with expectant, khol lined eyes.

“Go on. I’ll wait. Impress me.”