Disclaimer: Have you ever noticed that people who write these things aren't really conceited enough to develop obsessions with their own greatness, potentially fall for their characters, and basically fangirl over their creation?
I DON'T OWN, PEOPLE.*
She is the only one awake.
She is lying next to him in bed, wondering. How hard would it be to move on?
Yes, she loves him, has for a while, but life...
Well, she hasn't changed. She still wants more than he can give. It's not ambition, it's greed. Coveting the perfect boyfriend and wonderful apartment and great job, and oh, the huge white wedding, all the things she dreamed she'd have back when she was young.
He, she supposes, hasn't changed either. He's still a pessimist, still depressed, still drinking and smoking too much.
She looks at him, sleeping off another hangover, and she writes a letter.
I don't know if I'm coming back.
I'm making a break for it, getting out while I still can.
I'm sorry to say goodbye like this, but I have to strike while the iron's hot. If I wait until you wake up, I'll fall in love with you all over again.
Did you know how much easier it is to leave someone when they're asleep?
To tell you the truth, it's not easy at all. But it's for the best. I'm never going to change, and neither are you. We want different things in the long-term.
I'm going to quit drinking, and hopefully smoking too. Wish me luck.
Also, I love you. I hope you love me. We never really did say it out loud, but I guess we're afraid of commitment.
I'm something like sorry.
She moves around the room almost silently, gathering clothes and dressing. She pauses at the indigo bracelet.
She takes it as a reminder of him. Not that she wants to remember, but she might as well.
Then, she walks out.
He'll never get over her, she supposes. But she left, and that counts for something. He'd be bitter at her, at least.
She doesn't even know why she's leaving, just that she's compelled to. She hopes it's right.
Bernard Black wakes up in the morning to a violet haze in the back of his mind. He'd never cared much for roses, but violets would work.
Then he reads her letter, and an hour later, the flowers he ordered are delivered.
He hopes she didn't know which day it was. But he knows he'll remember Valentine's Day every year from now on.
He asks Manny to put them in a vase and cut the stems, because Manny doesn't know what's happened yet, and he sits and watches them blur in front of his eyes as his glass steadily empties and refills.
"Violet," he murmurs drunkenly.
And just like that, a girl with the same name comes into the shop, and smiles in an I'm-so-sorry-and-I'm-imagining-he-can't-see-me-pity-him kind of way as Manny aids her quest for a book.
He dissolves into the dark screen in his own mind, and Violet watches, still looking sorry
AN: Okay, please don't hate me. It really had to happen, for three reasons:
1. Fran is completely used to every relationship eventually being sabotaged. It was only a matter of time before her psychological programming kicked in and she left, because it's what she understands – endings.
2. I was sick of writing really similar instalments, all with the same themes, and this just happened when I started writing Violet.
3. I had Old Stone by Laura Marling and Writers' Retreat by Lloyd Cole in my head when I was writing. Give them both a listen, they're both beautiful songs.
*Note the comma. I DON'T OWN PEOPLE would have been a very different sentence, and also untrue, as I own several people. I call them "friends", but that doesn't really fit the evil I inflict upon them.
Just a grammar thing for you.