• Once upon a time, a girl had a rose. This rose was red with black and white stripes. It was strange, but beautiful. The girl loved the rose.
    When she was sad, she would close her shades and wallow in self pity while lying face down into her pillow. The rose drooped. It would appear that it wilted because of the lack of sun, but really the rose was sad with and for the girl.
    When she was happy, she would open her window while humming a merry tune, going around her room and doing little things, like writing or cleaning. Here the rose stood high. It swayed in the breeze, almost smiling with ease and happiness, even though roses do not smile.
    When the girl was in any other mood, she would read. The rose would sit there contently, glad for the quiet company while it looked out the window. Simple times like this were when they were the closest of friends.
    One night, the girl was angry. She paced back and forth impatiently. Irritation and more was just pouring out of her, filling the room. The rose was afraid.
    Slowly, carefully, it closed up, trying not to attract the girl's scary and intimidating attention. She had never acted this way before.
    Finally, not knowing what to do, the girl roughly grabbed a book and began to read. The rose did /not/ sit there contently, glad for the quiet company while it looked out the window. It remained closed.
    Eventually the girl slammed her book shut and went to sleep. The rose sat in the dark, shades up, window cracked, crickets chirping. The night was peaceful. The girl dreamed of nice things while two of the rose's black and white stripes changed into a big, grey, ugly scar. It remained closed.
    Morning came. The sun rose, the house awakened, the girl yawned. She got ready for school. Before leaving, she watered her friend, stroked its petals lightly, and went. The rose opened a little. Was it the breeze that made it move in a wave-like way?
    By the time the girl got home, the rose had opened almost half of the way. It watched her do her homework curiously, but remembered the previous night.
    Happy to see the rose feeling better, the girl opened her window. The soft breeze was like the taste of chocolate put into a feeling, gently pushing past the rose, filling the room with a sweet, fresh scent. It purred, smiling, even though roses don't do either. It opened up all the way, stretching to get as much of the breeze as possible. The girl watched warmly.
    She grabbed a book and began to read. Simple and indescribably good times like this were when they were more than the closest of friends. Times like this were when grey stripes faded away.
    A girl picks up a jar from her bookcase. She opens the top, then sets it by the open window. Dried rose petals with black and white stripes lay there. A breeze.