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?"
(Ready to get started?)
Aiden shrugged, slipping his backpack off one shoulder. "Ouais, j'imagine. Pas trop du genre 'pote d'étude'."
(Yeah, I guess. Not really the 'study buddy' type.)
Rosalie's lips curled into a faint smile. "Moi non plus. Mais Mme Hoff, elle s'en fout un peu de ce qu'on veut."
(Same here. But Mrs. Hoff doesn't really care what we want.)
They settled into a corner table, the buzz of the ceiling lights fading into background noise. Rosalie pulled out her notes and opened her laptop without waiting for Aiden.
They sat in silence for nearly twenty minutes. Aiden 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 nul, ça. J'pensais qu'on devait parler de la putain de Révolution française."
(This sucks. I thought we were supposed to talk about the damn French Revolution.)
Rosalie didn't look up.
"Nan."
(Nope.)
" Quoi ?"
(What?)
She calmly flipped a page in her notebook. "C'est pas une question sur la Révolution. C'est juste un poème. Un truc qui a du sens. Sur l'amour."
(It's not about the Revolution. It's just a poem. Something meaningful. About love.)
Aiden stared at her, mouth agape. "Tu déconnes ? J'ai bossé sur Robespierre pour rien ?"
(You're kidding, right? I've been studying Robespierre for nothing?)
"Carrément."
(Totally.)
He groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Putain, j'déteste les projets de groupe."
(Damn, I hate group projects.)
Rosalie finally set down her pen and looked him in the eyes. "Alors pense pas que c'est un projet de groupe. Imagine ça comme une conversation. Avec de la tension. C'est là que la poésie vit."
(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, surprised.
"C'est… bizarrement poétique, ça."
(That's… weirdly poetic.)
"Bah," she said. "T'es à moitié chemin."
(Well then. You're halfway there.)
He scoffed.
"Peu importe. Et maintenant ? On choisit un angle bidon sur l'amour et on écrit une carte Hallmark?"
(Whatever. So what now? We pick some cheesy love angle and write a Hallmark card?)
Rosalie's expression stayed cold, but her voice was sure.
"On partage. Deux points de vue. Moi, je prends la haine. Toi, l'amour."
(We split it. Two perspectives. I'll take hate. You take love.)
He narrowed his eyes. "Sérieux ?"
(Seriously?)
"Grave."
(Dead serious.)
"OK, » he snapped. « Je prends l'amour. Même si j'y connais rien. "
(Fine. I'll take love. Not that I know anything about it.)
A flicker crossed her face, but it disappeared quickly.
"C'est ptêt pour ça que ça marchera. Écris à partir de son absence."
(Maybe that's why it'll work. Write from its absence.)
He looked away, jaw tightening. "C'est ce que je comptais faire, de toute façon."
(That's what I was planning anyway.)
A long silence settled between them, heavy but not uncomfortable. Aiden fidgeted, but Rosalie remained calm, flipping back to her notes.
"Je te comprends pas."
(I don't get you.)
"T'as pas à. Écris juste un truc vrai. Moi, je ferai pareil. "
(You don't have to. Just write something real. I'll do the same.)
Despite himself, something in her voice calmed him—not warm, but steady. For the first time all day, Aiden stopped fidgeting and leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
"OK. Mais t'attends pas des fleurs et du soleil."
(Fine. But don't expect flowers and sunshine.)
Rosalie smirked faintly, still focused on her writing.
" J'en rêve même pas."
(I wouldn't dream of it.)