As I watch, the city lights up with fireworks and the streets fill with excited shouts. I can't help but think 'this is not safe, such a huge gathering, what if something happens again?'

how ironic that would be.

Music sounds loudly. People cross the street right under the balcony on which I am standing and I consider, for a moment, going down and joining them to celebrate my day. I'm already dressed up. I look more than ready for the accasion.

But you know? It's been more than 227 years, and I can still hear the crowd roaring as they walk me to the guillotine.

It's strange, what passes through one`s mind when he`s about to die. I never saw my life flashing before me. I thought of the stain on my sleeve and an itch in my back, that I couldn't reach to scratch with my bound hands.

It was chilly and I felt strangely far away. It's fine, I thought, I am old, I am dying, I failed. And I held my head up high until they pushed me to the ground, which was cold against my scrapped, bloody knees, and I regretted nothing-when they asked.

My head was forced down. I hope you'll think of me. I'm old, I'm tired, it's finally time to leave.

How naive of me.

The blade went down and I watched that head falling from afar, standing at the heart of an applauding crowd. "To the revolution!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.

I died and I was reborn and I didn't feel the slightest regret because now I was better, stronger, free.

But it's been 227 years and now under a sky that has less stars and more smoke I wonder what that newborn republic would have thought of me, and in my head the young man with the shining eyes lowers his flag, "What happened to you?"

I open my mouth to answer but nothing comes out because after all these years I can't say I'm any wiser, and right now I know nothing but regret because my city, my Lady of Paris, is once again filled with hatred, and the people, even tonight, are divided.

You knock on my door when it's almost past midnight and I open, and I miserably realise that there is something that never changed in all these years.

"You shouldn't be here," you say, "It's your birthday." And I shut the door and I tell you to stay and talk to me until our brains explode.

You role your eyes. I pull you over and smash our lips together and you gasp and frown and finally kiss me back and when you brush your fingers past those faint, white scars at my neck that are a memorial for a long-gone me, I grin bitterly because even that man who looked up to a king and ruled an empire kept something else close to his heart. "Thanks for coming."

"Why, it's your birthday."

"I love you."

"I know."

And we go out to the balcony and you say that you brought cake- "I didn't make it, don't worry"- and we share it and we watch the fireworks. I tell you about how fucked up these times are and how fucked up I feel and you say, "It's never been better." We stay quiet again. I ask you to stay the night and you say, "obviously."

The street is quiet now, though we can still hear faint party music from afar. I kiss you again. It's like coming home.

There, I tell the young revolutionist in my mind, I'm still you.

Author`s note: The name references Edward Hopper's painting: "Nighthawks". It was chosen by Maayan Leibowicz, an art student friend, who's also the one who did the beta reading.

Thanks for reading!