She loved abstract things. Broken cups, ashes, splashing paints, dusted canvases, silent rains, crispy leaves, empty corridors, diaries and him. Her easel always supported the sketches of that intimacy, her brushes quietly drawing the face – perfect margins, nice features, and it would come into existence – apparently talking in her imagery like a raindrop on a leaf or a snowflake on a window.
She always chose the wrong option. An empty batch, a barren pathway, wrong color to paint his smile with, pointless reason to draw and an outdated court to let her ball in. Walking through the same streets, smelling that familiar aroma, a sharp voice and her heart skipped a beat – her love ended in that tiny cafe of this old road of the beautiful Paris, which was only known for growing love in souls.
“I want to snuggle with you. I’d like to lie on you and put my head on your shoulder and breathe in the same rhythm that you’re breathing.” She could hear his words echoing in her ears. She felt a smile on her lips after long, not the smile which she shared with her friends at the bar or the one she shared when her boss surprised her with a bonus or her mom gave her a complimentary look. It was the smile which would only come with his name.
She was terrified of her self, a mistake again.
She chose the wrong person to get her heart broken by, and she’d not change it, her wishes unfilled, her dreams broken.
Paris saw parting for the first time, the air was sad, the parks mourned, the river silent – how painful is an ended love; the moment was frozen in eyes.