Author's Note: So this is sort of a brain child of mine, not quite like other stuff I've written. I'm a bit obsessed with Paris at the moment, so if it sounds like a romantic's imagination of what Paris should be, well, that's sort of exactly what it is. Anyhow, enjoy and please review!
Disclaimer: Any and all allusions to Harry Potter and/or the HP universe belong to JK Rowling, not me.
2070
Do you remember the flowers, my love? Can you recall the explosions of colour that assaulted us from every direction; blossoms overflowing window boxes, planters – even the manicured gardens of the majestic houses teemed with vibrant life. Do you remember those days spent wandering lanes that twined through tall, rickety buildings exuding history? Probably not, my darling. You don't recall those months together – they've become faint ghosts haunting the darkest corners of your dusty subconscious. You and I, dear, we've faded like the stars in the afternoon light. But please, darling – try to remember. Relive – just once – those fleeting moments when Paris was ours.
2020
We wandered the street, hands skimming against the others' with each swing; each wanting to feel the warmth of skin enfolding their own in its depths, but too shy to make the first move. You wanted to find a café by the Seine with a painter sitting outside and a snooty waiter with a hooked nose at the counter. That was your dream – your vision of Paris.
I couldn't wait to return to our small rented loft with its slanted ceiling of old, cloudy windows and tiny balcony with riotous flower boxes. Waiting for us there was my dear typewriter – brought with us from England – and bundle upon bundle of pure, untouched paper just waiting to be brought to life with words and observations. I had come here to watch the people in this tragically beautiful city; I wanted to be the one who told the most memorable stories of love and loneliness in this City of Light.
Around your neck there hung the camera that your grandfather had given you as a graduation gift. It was old – from when he was a teenager – yet you adored it as much as you loved him. Filled with hard-to-come-by film, it was your version of a canvas. I painted my pictures with words – black letters swelling over the passive white background. You told your stories with photographs – heartbreak, childhood and joy all captured in one image. We were artists, you and I, come to the city whose very blood was made of ink, oil and watercolours.
2070
Do you know, my darling, how very cold money is? Did you ever imagine how lonely wealth can be? When we talked about our future, did it ever cross your mind that they wouldn't be intertwined? Knowing that I have succeeded – that my dreams really did come true – is not as fulfilling as we thought it would be. You see, my dear, we were dreaming the wrong dreams all along; the wishes we made upon those distant stars were wasted, for we already had what really mattered. I had you, my love. Why did I want more?
2021
The city has turned grey – all the flowers shrivelled and the leaves fell into gutters. Slush fills the streets as dusk elongates the shadows of the looming buildings. I sit at my desk, once again lost in my world of letters, oblivious to your absence and the numbers on the clock. Suddenly you rush through the door dusting off snowflakes, camera swinging familiarly against your chest. Your hand is clutched tight around a letter as tears streams down your face. I do not notice, for my writing has captured my attention.
You start to talk, though I do not hear much (I'm writing about a young woman just about the throw herself into the Seine) until you start screaming. Your grandfather has died, you say, and we must return to England. We have to comfort your father and be there for your grandmother. The funeral is just a week away, so we must leave tomorrow.
I say that your sister is more than capable of helping your father, and that your grandmother has six children, countless grandchildren, and even a couple of great-grandchildren all of whom can help her through these hard times. Why must we leave when you will just be another person – another face in the crowd? You curse me, cry some more, then simply stop talking and start packing your bags.
When you say you're leaving, I assume that you'll be back in a couple weeks after visiting your family and going to your grandfather's funeral. Two weeks pass by, and the flat feels empty without your presence. I send a letter to you – we were both too absorbed in our art to acquire an owl here – just to make sure you're alright, and to ask when you'll be back. I get a response a week later from your sister, saying that you're fine and you won't be coming back. Down at the bottom underneath the signature there is one sentence in your handwriting: "You are no longer the man I love – you have changed too much – and while it breaks my heart now, I know that leaving is the best thing to do. Goodbye." You didn't sign your name, but I'd know your writing anywhere.
The answer breaks my heart, but I simply use it as inspiration for my writing – another story of love and loss in the City of Light. Two months later, my first collection of stories is published in both French and English – it is an instant hit. A year after that, I write a bestseller about doomed love between a French witch and a German muggle, set – of course – in Paris. Slowly you slip out of my mind, becoming a hazy figure who appears only in my deepest of dreams.
2070
I remember you, my darling, as I lay here alone in this cold empty bed. Silk sheets do nothing to warm a person's heart; velvet drapes cannot love a person's soul. I have bought friends, companionship – every material thing I could ever want resides within these exclusive walls. Yet you, my dear, you are nowhere to be found. I looked for you after I wrote my last sentence – when all the inspiration had dried up and no one cared anymore whether I lived or died, I looked for you. But you have disappeared, my love, and I am left cold and alone.
You loved me before anyone else knew my name, and all I did was disappoint you. I hope you found love, my darling. I hope someone recognised the beauty of your heart the way I did not. I hope you never felt as lonely as I have, my love. I hope you got to live all of your life the way we did when Paris was ours.
A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review and let me know what you think. The characters in this are supposed to be Molly II and an anonymous old boyfriend (who narrates). If there's any grammar/spelling mistakes, please let me know and I'll correct them. Cheers!