I walked into the living room, staring at the floor. I was desperately trying not to make any eye contact with any of the young men mother had invited over for tea.

To make looking down at the floor a little less boring, I examined the rug. I was surprised that not once, in the 15 years I have lived here, had I actually looked at the rug.

It was pretty big, covering up most of the room. Then again, the room was somewhat small. Either way, the rug was a good size.

The rug was my grandmothers, before she died two years ago. I changed after she passed. We used to sit in this room and drink tea and talk about books. She was the only one who ever understood me. Mother is trying to make me feel better; to talk to someone my own age. But grandma was something special, along with the carpet.
The rug was given to her when she and my grandpa bought this house. The room smelled like her, her and her blue birds.
It was the color of my dress, the rug, a creamy color. There were a few shades of cream, lighter and darker. Almost caramel.
The borders of the rug looked as if they were made of gold. They would swerve and point all around, making sort of triangle shapes at the corners. Inside of the triangles were red flowers. Not roses, something else. Like a flower made of feathers.
In the center of the rug there was an emblem, bordered with those same gold borders. In the middle there was a teal oval. It was simple, but the only teal color in the whole rug. It was my favorite. Grandma’s too.
There were red and pink feather flowers all over the rug. There were so many that it was impossible not to step on one of them.
I started walking around the room, noticing things I have never noticed. Like the marble statue of an angel, or the candle sticks in front of mother’s mirror. Or even the engravings on the fireplace.
That’s when it happened. That’s when I was in the middle of something humiliating, terrifying.
I was walking over, to nowhere special, when I was stopped. I had fallen over, almost onto grandma’s precious carpet. I fell into arms, strong arms.
I opened my eyes, which were closed, and looked into the most amazing face I have ever seen.
He had the bluest eyes, like my favorite teal oval on grandmas rug, or like the tiles on the fireplace. They were a mix of teal and blue.
And he had the strangest hair. Caramel, like the rug or candle sticks. It was messy, a wave I wanted to dive into.
His left arm was the one that caught me, on my back. His right arm was gently around my waist, keeping me from falling over.
I stood up, blushing, pulling a strand of hair behind my ear. He was blushing too, slightly. Embarrassed by my clumsiness, I fiddled with my dress.
“Are you alright?” He asked me. His voice sounded like the piano, when grandma played the piano. Like I could hear her gently pressing down the keys.
“Yes, thank you.” I said, curtsying like mother would want me to.
“My name is Charles.” He said, pulling his hands behind his back. Could he remind me anymore of Grandma?
“It is nice to meet you.” I said, remembering everything about being proper. Head up, stand strait, don’t fidget and make eye contact. “I am Talia.”