A/N: So I saw there was very little fic in the FLO archive and decided for some reason, mostly unknown to me, that I should write something. I fear this may be a little OOC and for that I'm sorry :/ In other news this is my longest fic to date (Yay!) Thank you for reading- Marie x
She is so confused.
She doesn't know if it was good. Or perhaps the heartbreak could never be worth it.
She tries to write it out but the words just won't come. Her emotions are a swirling vortex, drawing her in and leaving only a stoic visage for the rest of the world.
Part of her is angry. At herself. At him. At whatever force caused their chance meeting.
She thinks that if she never saw him again, that if they had ended in arguments and frustration, then it would be better.
Better than this slow, unforgiving heartbreak.
They had their second chance; to fly, to soar, to burn so bright and outshine everything. They took it; grabbed it with both hands and ran, ran so far away from anything and anyone but each other. Then reality clawed her way back in and they couldn't run from her any longer.
Part of her thinks she should be grateful. To have felt that love; so strong, so true. The truth is that if she hadn't felt it, then maybe it would be easier to move on. To forget the past, and forget the city reserved for lovers.
A tear makes its way slowly down her cheek but she does not move to wipe it away.
There will be more to follow and yet more after that.
The choice she made was right. His daughter deserves him, his wife should have him. She has a husband, she should be happy.
If life has taught her anything, it's that things don't always happen as they should and people don't always feel the way they should feel. Whatever happens now she will always be in love with him; he has her heart. And she won't look after it any longer. But life has a different plan for them.
Maybe someday they'll meet again, in Paris. Maybe the third time really is the charm. Maybe they'll find a way to slip off these chains of obligation.
The train pulls into the station. The Gare du Nord is as busy as ever. People rushing to and fro; racing to meet family and loved ones. Sofia slips soundlessly between them and she makes her way towards the exit. The sun is shining brightly through the glass at the front of the station but she doesn't feel its warmth. She is going home and yet - it feels more like she is leaving.
She hitches her bag up further onto her shoulder and steps into the afternoon light.
It's for the best.
Much later, after a long flight and an even longer conversation with her husband, the rest of the tears fall. She had thought she'd cried her heart out once before but now she realises that was nothing. Nothing compared to this pain.
She is barricaded in the spare room; the curtains haphazardly drawn in a rush and the bedding disordered by her constant restlessness. The dim evening light peeking through the gap in the curtains finds her sitting on the floor, her back resting against the solid pine chest of drawers.
The position is oddly reminiscent of her sitting against the window of a Parisian hotel room. This time instead of a journal or a voice recorder her wedding band rests in her grasp. She spins the polished metal around and around; her mind so far away from where she currently rests.
She considers getting another tattoo. Something to try and erase the thoughts of him from her mind but she knows it didn't work last time, and after these last weeks her first attempt draws a straight line back to him. Everything leads straight back to him.
The sheets she cocooned herself in earlier smell nothing like those of any French hotel room, and yet she swears a hint of his cologne still lingers upon them; the impossible nature of that fact in no way diminishing its truth. She knows that when she wakes tomorrow- for a second, no longer- she will feel the press of phantom lips against her temple or the back of her neck. A ghost of a lost morning caress.
It is the sharp stab of loss that motivates her to move. The short stretch of hallway between the guest room where she was cloistered and her room seems to go on for miles and as she nears the solid door she wavers. For a moment she considers staying; considers continuing a life here with the carpenter she hoped to use to replace him.
The thought is dismissed almost instantly. She could never go back to pretending, not now.
Packing takes no time at all; she takes only those things she'll miss and leaves everything else. Her clothes fill a suitcase, on top rest a handful of photographs and several magazines. The magazines show no real correlation; that is unless one reads the picture credits. She is still toying with her wedding ring, moving the band back and forth almost unconsciously between her fingers. With a shake of her head she places the ring carefully on top of the dresser, lining it up squarely with the divorce papers on which it rests.
Sofia casts her gaze swiftly around the room. It all seems alien to her now: the floral bedding, the dark heavy furniture, books which she has never read and has no wish to. With her suitcase rolling gently behind her Sofia closes the door on this part of her life; both literally and metaphorically. The deep boom of the front door shutting alerts her husband to her departure, but she knows that by the time he realises she is leaving for good, she will be far from this place.
She does not know her destination, for now she wants to let the winds of chance take her. She will not run to him; that is not why she is doing this. The love between her and Yves is strong, stronger than anything she has ever felt, yet reason tells her not to interfere here.
It is not their time.
For a million and one reasons, the universe does not want them to be together now. But she cannot stay in a relationship with a man for whom her love is a mere shadow and so she is leaving her husband. She reaches the airport and gazes upon the departures board, allowing gut instinct to pick her destination.
These last weeks may have broken her heart but they have renewed her creativity.
Who knows where she will end up in the coming years, and with whom, but for now she has a flight to catch.
Voici mon secret. Il est très simple: on ne voit bien qu'avec le cœur. L'essentiel est invisible pour les yeux
- Le Petit Prince