LOVE AND TEARS

seemed to carry a tiny, glistening tear, mirroring the profound ache that had settled deep in her chest. She wasn't crying, not anymore. The well of tears had run dry weeks ago, leaving behind a raw,

ushes had long since stalled, caked with hardened paint. The vibrant greens of budding leaves and hopeful yellows of blossoming daffodils lay dormant and brittle on her palette, replaced by a chaotic swirl of muted grays and melancholic blues that seemed to bleed into one another, much

crinkled at the corners when he truly smiled. Three months of stolen glances, shared dreams, whispered confessions under starlit skies, and a love that had bloomed with an almost reckless abandon. It had felt less like a chance encounter and more like an instant recognition, two fragmented souls finally finding their missing piece in the vast, confusing puzzle

dark hair would fall across his forehead, needing a constant sweep of his hand to clear it. She heard his voice, a low rumble when he was thoughtful, a bright crescendo when he was excited. She remembered their last conversation, not an argument, not a fight, but a

laugh, her head thrown back, hair a wild, auburn mess, pure, unadulterated joy radiating from her. He'd captured a moment of unfiltered happiness she barely recognized as her own anymore. Looking at that

, vibrant watercolor sketches of sun-drenched forests. But her eyes lingered on one page: a detailed sketch of Eliott's hand, strong and artistic, holding a single, fragile dandelion. He'd been fascinated by the delica

didn't sketch a face, or a landscape, or even a still life. Instead, with a painstaking precision, she drew a single, delicate tear, perfectly formed, tracing its imagined path

armth of him being near. But all that remained was the echo, a memory that both comforted and tormented, a beautiful, painful reminder of what she had lost. The world outside her window was a blurry watercol

d with thin white sheets like shrouds over forgotten dreams. Pots of dried-up paintbrushes stood like skeletal trees on her workbench. Every corner seemed to hold a phantom limb of their shared life-a well-worn copy of his favorite poetry colle

h of oat milk, no sugar – before she even stirred in the mornings, placing it gently on her bedside table. Or how he'd hum off-key while doing dishes, a habit that used to make her laugh until her stomach h

er waist, resting his chin gently on her shoulder. "What masterpiece are you conjuring today, artist?" he'd murmured, his voice a low rumble against her ear, a sound that always sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. She'd leaned back into him, feeling utterly safe, utterly cherished, as if she had finally found her true anchor. "Just trying to capture the soul of this old tree," she'd whispered, closing her eyes for a moment, absorbing his warmth. He'd kissed the top of her head, a soft

lous and practical, tried desperately to piece together what had gone wrong. Had she been too much? Too demanding? Had her quiet, contemplative nature, so valued by him initially, eventually stifled his adventurous, restless spirit? He hadn't given her answers, just that vague, dismiss

ched under a large, dark umbrella, hurried past, a blur of dark fabric against the shimmering, silvered street. A taxi splashed through a puddle, sending up a sheet of water, uncaring. It was a fleeting image, but something about the person's sol

lding her hand, whispering encouragement. The quiet evenings curled up on the sofa, sharing books, their legs tangled. The ambitious trips they'd dreamed of taking to paint vast, inspiring landscapes across the continent, or to visit obscure art galleries in tiny Eu

instinct, the quiet, insistent urge to create even in the face of utter desolation. To pick up the brush, not for the vibrant spring landscapes she'd envisioned with him, but for whatever color her world held now, even if it was just the solemn gray of the rain or the stark black of her own despair. To find the soul again, even in the muted grays and blues that curren

give you the depth and length you were hoping for, truly