(Emily is sitting in the gardens after a fight with James.)
The roses were in full bloom plucked and pruned into a beautiful array of contrasting colors. Normally I would admire, or at least envy their exotic collection of flowers of every imaginable hue, but I sat in the grass unmoved by the beauty. The roses themselves were stunning, but they were deceiving just like the notion of love itself. You try to pick the tantalizing rose, only to be pricked unexpectedly by a thorn that the rose had been cleverly hiding. It never meant for you to be able to pick it, it just sits there the picture of perfection, so tempting, and yet so unattainable.