Red roses withered to grey, marking the months that went by after the fateful day. The last strength holding those petals together gave way relently, grey petals lying around the glass vase. The discolorized stems bent aside, their tips almost tripping out of the glass rim.   Shadows casted on the leftover state, as morning sunrays lightly shone into the room. They weren’t at their glaring moment, nowhere capable to warm up this cold room. But did it matter? The room’s been cold since then.    Empty.   Or so it seemed...     High-pitched ringing resounded the confined space, breaking the slight finest silence. It didn’t take long when a lump piled in the middle of the bed shifted. Ruffles heard before a hand stretched out from the hem of the quilt. It immediately retracted back into its hiding when bare skin came in contact with the air. Chilly. But the alarm had to stop.   Twice, the ringing finally stopped.    Silence.  Shuffles made before the quilt was lifted and casted aside. A mess straightened her body up, eyes closing and back hunched. A long sigh escaped the thin figure, a hand lifted up to ruffle the hair. Unwillingly, the figure dragged its body out of bed and in to the bathroom.    Facing the sink, those eyes fell upon two toothbrushes. Left, pink; right, purple. A hand reached out, halting in front, clearly contemplating which one to use. It always ended up the same decision, pink.    It’s unhygienic and least encouraged to share toothbrush, but the figure couldn’t care less. It’s one of the few countable ways to feel a little contact.   Squeezing the minty paste on slick tips, shoving into the mouth before working its best to scrub away any bacterias. The eyes slowly drove up to the mirror, reflecting the owner. There, stood a woman. Dark circles formed below those weary eyes, eye bags visible. The once black glossy pupils stared back at its owner, now dull and empty, bloodshot even.    Guggled and washed the face, her eyes never stop staring at the reflection. One hand stretched to trace the contours,    “Who are you? Where is the Jessica that Tiffany loved?”   Repeated questions, a daily routine, but were never answered. Shrugging, she left the bathroom and went down to the kitchen. It’s empty, of course.    On the dining table laid a sumptuous spread, again, waiting for her. The housemaids left after completing respective chores. They were sent home for a half-year leave, by Tiffany’s grandparents, but occasionally dropped by for maintenance and for Jessica. They were there to witness all commotions, alongside the grandparents, and all they could do was this for her. Discretely, the grandparen