I stop in front of Rose's room door, debating whether to knock or not. If I don't, she will undoubtedly be angry with me, but I might also walk in on her changing or sleeping or doing something else that will let me catch a glimpse of my usually private and sort of antisocial friend. I know I sound like some kind of pervert, but I can't help it. Rose is gorgeous and from what I see when she isn't trying to scare people away is that she is sweet; kind; creative; funny in a dry, sarcastic kind of way; and loving. Reading her journal and hanging out with her almost all the time just reinforces that image. I know I should feel guiltier about all of that, especially because I'm supposed to her friend, and just her friend, but I can't help it.

I finally just shrug and walk in, figuring that the possible pros outweigh the cons; Rose always acts angry with me anyways. I freeze at the sight that meets my eyes and in that moment, my world stops.

Rose is slouched against the far wall, her head hanging and a gun buried in her dark brown hair, pointed at her temple. Her beautiful, dark gray-green eyes are half-lidded, and none of the unique color can be seen through her thick, dark lashes. Her face is slack and relaxed; her full, pouting lips not forming their usual frown and her slim, dark brows out of their usual lowered, scowling position for once. Her wrist is limp and she holds the gun in slack fingers; only her pointer finger is tense- poised and ready to pull the trigger.

I'm frozen in place, my mind screaming and running in endless, pointless circles. The only thing going through my mind is a constant and never-ending stream of denial and sudden regrets. Why have I never tried to talk to her about anything important? Why have I never told her what I think of her? Why have I never told her what- what I feel for her?

My mind flashes through all the images that I have of her: as she usually is with her face pulled into a scowl and clearly implying that I am an annoying, unwanted presence; as I rarely see her, outside with her lips quirked up in a small smile as she leans against something, her face turned to the wind, her hair whipping in a frenzy around her face and her arms crossed; as I have seen her only once, with her beaming and brushing her hair out of her eyes rather shyly on her seventeenth birthday; and as I have seem her every night that I have stayed over, when I am supposedly locked in with her brother in his room: curled up with her face relaxed and innocent in sleep, eyelashes laying lightly across high cheekbones, her soft lips parted slightly and her hand curled to her chest in an innocent sleeper's gesture. All this flashes through my mind, until she interrupts my thoughts herself.

She glances up at me lazily. Suddenly, she looks bored rather than despondent and hopeless. Her face quickly screws into its usual scowl. She stands up and tosses the gun away in one smooth motion. "Relax. It's not loaded," she says looking rather annoyed, before walking out of the room, brushing my arm with her shoulder as she saunters by.

I want to believe her, but something makes me cross the room and check the chamber. It's loaded.

A/N: This was originally written for a contest where you had to write about one minute of a character's life. Unfortunately, it cost money to enter and that's a no-no for me. So, tell me what you think.