The Stranger I Loved

Upon their return to London, it seemed to mirror their inner turmoil: the rain was a reflection of the melancholy that had enveloped them. The last day in Brighton was a fleeting paradise; how could such a beautiful time come to an end? But it did. It had to.

The stage, once a sanctuary for Rose Dawson, now felt like a prison. The boarding house, once a home, now felt like an alien place. London was unfamiliar. The one thing that kept her grounded was a near stranger—a stranger she had come to love. But five days in another person's home, she and Jack Dawson had found themselves and each other. They had learned to love and be loved in return.

The theatre, once a vibrant house of art, now felt like an empty shell. A life was changed, perhaps forever. It was now clear that the existence she had before that wordless dance with Jack Dawson was devoid of meaning...

He hadn't picked up a camera since Brighton. The storefront of his gallery, which he had once felt an ounce of pride for, was now just bleak and unwanted. It felt like a shackle about his body, dragging him into a beyond. Life had resumed, and why wouldn't it?

Jack Dawson was a renowned photographer. His diary, once opened, was full until at least August of social events, work and meetings. That would mean commitment and money. Commitment was easy, before he had committed to a woman he was in love with. Money had never meant a thing to him. Reliance on anything was a circumstance he'd fought against his entire life, and now there was no escaping it. Leastwise, not for him.

And then he had watched her, his Rose. She had performed so beautifully. The play had come to a sudden halt without her presence to be the perfect actress on stage. The media had reported on her absence; too many scandalous stories to even name. Some suggested that she was too difficult to work with, some suggested a rift between her and Stuart and then one had suggested she had run away with a lover—a photographer.

Smoking cigarette after cigarette whilst in the audience, Jack watched as she cried to Stuart. Kissed his mouth. Whispered words of love to him. Weeks prior, seeing her this way had led him to believe there was some passion, some spark, perhaps even love between the co-stars, but now, as she said those words, he had heard them while she was in the throes of passion. Amid orgasm. Under the stars. In his bed. Jack knew the truth...she had told him herself in so many words, so vague, but now it was evident. Rose had hidden herself within her character. Katherine. For four years, she had played another. Buried herself deep within another just to lose herself, and in that time, by taking on others, she had simply forgotten how to be herself. Now, after some time away to be just the woman she was, just a woman. A woman who was in love with a man, but now it was hard to return. It was challenging to become the character when reality was suddenly wonderful. Jack knew she was a brilliant actress, but the performance following their return to London showed that she had struggled. He had seen it there within her face, in her performance.

"Hey, you all right tonight?" Clara stood in the shadows of Rose's dressing room door. Without the cloud of smoke, it would have been hard even to notice her presence.

"Yes. Thank you." Rose quickly removed her costume jewellery and fiddled with the cuff of her dress. The pictures which sat upon her table caught her eye, and how every one of them now felt impossible to her. In her life. How was she living before Jack? They were pictures of a young girl who was heavily in mourning. Unrecognisable...

"We missed you when you went away."

"Well, I am back now. There is no need to fuss." She collected together the jewellery and placed it inside a small purse with a drawstring fastening. Her hair fell loose from the braid, and she glanced at it in the mirror with a sudden hatred for its brightness. How does one even recall her natural hair when it's been blonde for so long? Her voice was cold. Sharp. Devoid of sentiment.