He died on the last day of November.
Penniless, ill, ostracized.
But not broken.
Even then, he was looking at the stars.
- - -
Isabelle did not attend his funeral.
The headlines screamed the news: 'FAMOUS WRITER BURIED IN PARISIAN GRAVEYARD'
Despite herself, grief, cold and numbing, managed to seep into her body. It came coyly, like a long-lost friend, wrapping its fingers around her heart to drag her down.
You hated him, it whispered. You didn't care about what would happen.
Well, now you have it- and it's your fault.
She barely flinched, and threw the paper aside in thinly veiled disgust.
She did not cry.
- - -
It is a warm summer day.
Isabelle strides down the path, auburn hair whipping in the breeze.
So preoccupied she is in her own thoughts, she does not notice the man until she bumps into him.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaims, as his black book tumbles to the ground.
"No, it's my own fault."
Hastily, she picks it up, only to notice that it is filled with scrawled handwriting.
Curiosity gets the better of her. "Are you a writer?"
It is then she sees him for the first time.
Tousled black hair. Grey-green eyes, lit by an intensity she had not seen before.
A smile breaks across his face as his hands close around hers on the book. "That, I am."
It is the moment she falls in love.
- - -
"I don't believe this!" Isabelle fumes. "You were flirting with her!"
It is late at night, and they had just returned from a party, of which he had been the centre of attention.
The guests loved him, and Isabelle had found herself inexplicably jealous as a particular lady had chosen to fawn over him the entire evening.
It isn't as though she's being possessive as his beau, but the fact that he was flattered- amused, even- that made her upset.
And the way he was chatting her up and laughing with her, without a single care in the world...
His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "I was not." he says emphatically, though his pleased expression does not fade.
"You liked talking to her!" Isabelle accuses. "You... You looked like you were having so much fun!"
He leans back in his chair. "And why would I not? Everyone enjoys being the centre of attention once in a while."
She has to agree that his logic is perfectly rational, and he had been the guest of honour after all, but that does not soothe her wounded pride.
"You're my date!" she hisses. "I don't want some... some minx to come in and steal your attention from me!"
He blinks at her, bemused.
