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I don't love you.
What a lie that is.
I love the way your deep brown eyes stare into my soul.
I love the way your dirty blond hair brushes my cheek when we kiss.
I love the way when you laugh the world shakes.
I love the way when you stare at me it seems as though we're the only people in the world
It was early March, 1809. Naomi was walking along the cobblestone London roads. Her thick, jet-black hair was flying behind her in the nipping English breeze. Her face was veiled by a opaque blanket of fog. Her lips were looking more and more black against her ashen face.
A long, delicate wraith like dress flowed behind her. Her lips mouthed incoherent words.
He was walking the other way, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He wasn't from London. He had run from the kingdom in Austria. His wild, sandy blond hair whipped his wind-bitten cheeks. He was staring at the empty streets, unsure what he was looking for.
He definitely wasn't looking when he ran straight into the wraith.
A gentle "oof" and a pale white girl was lying on the gray street, enveloped in an angelic gown.
He dropped to his knees and stared at her mesmerizing features. He gently caressed her stone-cold face, pushing her onyx hair behind her ear.
Suddenly, her eyes shot open and she stared into his endless brown eyes.
"Who are you?" He whispered. Her lips remained silent and the deafening silence throbbed in each of there ears. She pushed herself into a sitting position.
"My name is Cristina," she whispered. The boy smiled and clutched her around the shoulders. She pushed him away with an amazing amount of force.
"I don't love you," she whispered.
"What?" The boy's face contorted into a look of incomprehension.
"Please go away." The girl demanded and stood up. She stared him with soul-searching eyes for what seemed like forever. A single tear rolled down her cheek and she turned away and disappeared into the London fog, leaving the runaway prince dumbfounded