I couldn't tear my eyes away from the painting on the wall. It was a bigger version of the one I had painted for his birthday.
The painting was vast, taking up the entire wall. I had painted a watercolor silhouette of Florence, his favorite city, while his version, though not in watercolor, captured the same effect.
As I approached, each step seemed to breathe life into a new scene in my mind.
"Don't go, Dorian."
Echoes of voices intertwined with fragments of memories.
"Why don't you love me?"
With those words, emotions flooded back, a profound sadness, an ocean where I drowned in its cool, dark waves.
So, I actually had confessed my feelings to him. He knew; he had known the truth since his birthday last year. Despite my tears, my desperate pleas for him not to leave, he carried on
