Sunlight through the leaves and that perfect Parisian breeze – feels like this has been our summer for ages! Cozy knit sweater, favorite boots, and not much else to it... justing being us, one golden ...

“There. That’s the one,” we always said, didn’t we? The slight tilt of the head, the way the light caught the fringe of the scarf when it brushed against your cheek… for years, at least, that was our version. Now there’s only quiet, isn’t there? Not unpleasant, not entirely - moreish, maybe. Like a good glass of Burgundy, if a little too familiar after all these years.

These woollies, though. These perfectly worn cashmere scarves. They were his mother’s, really. Or perhaps ours to lose. A subtle reminder, those loops and creases, of everything agreeded upon, every promise kept - until it wasn’t. This blue, so deep, almost navy, feels particularly stubborn tonight. It should be comforting, shouldn't it? Simple. Just this coat, these scarves… ourselves.

You haven't spoken much since we stepped out onto the terrace. Probably because words are hard, aren’t they? Always were. We used to muddle through with glances, with the scent of rain and woodsmoke, but then came the argument about the roses—a rather petty thing, most people would say —and suddenly the embers dimmed.

Now look at you. Hesitant smile, tucked into your jacket. Did he mention us? Likely. He does tend to remember things, doesn’t he? Your gaze drifts back towards the garden, searching for evidence. Perhaps a flicker of recognition, a spark of hope.

It hasn’t been a disaster, has it? Not completely. More often than not, the silence is nice. But sometimes, don’t you think, you wonder if we ever truly asked each other why.”

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