Lavender Fields

🌆 Part 1:

“Late Afternoon in the Apartment”

The apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and jasmine tea—leftovers from a morning no one had really been awake for. Paris hummed outside the windows, impatient and oblivious as ever, but inside the flat, everything felt hushed.

Rosetta let her bag fall to the floor, its thud barely echoing against the cold tile. She didn’t kick off her shoes or call out to anyone. She just stood there, her back to the closed door, and closed her eyes.

No college. No callbacks. No friends.

Just silence.

She moved through the living room like a ghost, past the bookshelves that no one read from anymore, past her father’s forgotten laptop with ten open tabs and a blinking cursor on an unfinished sentence. Her mother’s cardigan was slung over the dining chair, like a hand reaching out and never followed through.

“Rosie?” came Sofia’s voice from the kitchen. Not intrusive. Careful, like stepping into a room with a sleeping animal.

Rosetta only nodded and sat down at the table. She didn’t say what happened. Didn’t have to.

Her father, Steve, joined a minute later. Glasses sliding down his nose, shirt wrinkled from the day’s stress. He looked at her like he was trying to do math on her face — how many days had it been since she smiled? Since she looked anyone in the eyes?

They ate dinner quietly. Grilled vegetables, overcooked rice. Rosetta moved food around her plate with her fork like it owed her answers. No one pushed her to speak. But eventually, the quiet stretched too long.

Sofia cleared her throat. “You remember your grandparents' house? The one in Provence?”

Rosetta didn’t look up. “Yeah.”

“The lavender’s probably starting to bloom now,” her mother said, softly. “The whole hill turns purple this time of year. You used to run through it like a little tornado.”

Steve added, “Rony’s probably still waiting for you by the gate.”

She didn’t laugh, but she did almost smirk. Almost.

Her mother folded her hands. “Maybe you could… go. Just for a while. For the summer. They’d love to have you. No pressure, no expectations. Just quiet. Sunshine. Bread that actually tastes like something.” A pause. “Might be good for you.”

Rosetta didn’t respond. She stabbed a zucchini and chewed without tasting it.

Sofia didn’t say anything else. She didn’t plead. Just let the suggestion settle into the room like lavender oil on a pillowcase — something meant to calm, not cure.

When dinner ended, Rosetta stood up without a word, gathered her plate, and washed it silently. She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no.

📍 Part 2:

“Rosetta’s Resistance”

Rosetta sat on the edge of her bed, elbows on her knees, phone face down beside her like it had personally betrayed her.

The glow from the hallway crept in through the crack in her door. Her mother was humming something downstairs — a low, slow melody Rosetta didn’t recognize. Maybe a hymn. Maybe something from a long time ago.

She looked around her room. Posters of bands she no longer listened to. A corkboard covered in faded polaroids and sticky notes with things like “Oxford Application Deadline” and “Call Clara?” — like echoes of a person she used to be.

She thought of the lavender fields.

She didn’t want to go.

Not because she hated it. Not because she didn’t love her grandparents or the fields or the silence. But because it felt like defeat. Like leaving meant admitting she couldn’t figure things out here. That she was crumbling and everyone knew it.

A soft knock at the door.

Her mother stepped in, careful not to cross the threshold too quickly. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

Rosetta gave a small shrug.

Sofia sat down in the chair across the room — the one no one ever used. “I just… I remember how peaceful you looked there. With Grandma’s apron dragging behind you like a cape. You used to say the lavender buzzed when it liked you.”

Rosetta stared at the floor. “I’m not six.”

“I know.” Her mom’s voice held no sarcasm, just a quiet ache. “You’re carrying too much for seventeen.”

Rosetta blinked hard. “It’s just… If I leave, doesn’t that mean I gave up?”

“No,” Sofia said gently. “It means you’re taking a breath. Not giving up. You’re allowed to need that.”

Rosetta didn’t answer. The room held the silence for her. Her mother stood, leaned down, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear — a gesture from a time when comfort came easier. Then she left the door open when she walked out.

Alone again, Rosetta lay back on her bed. The ceiling stared back, unblinking.

Her mind wandered. A flash — her grandfather’s rough voice calling from the vineyard. Her grandmother’s bread rising under a tea towel. That excited dog barking at butterflies.

The scent of crushed lavender on her palms.

She rolled over and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Didn’t say yes. Didn’t say no.

Just let the memory flicker quietly until sleep found her.