Disclaimer: I own nothing but the idea for this drabble.
A/N: I made this drabble a couple of years back, just posting it here.
Francis Bonnefoy, or mostly known as France, walks leisurely along a particular busy street of Paris one lazy afternoon. As he walked on by, he watches the people around him. On a corner, just a few feet away from him, there sat an old couple in a bench. Even if the years have passed them by, the love the old couple shared is still as strong as when they were younger. This made France smile a little, albeit a little sad. He remembered that he had loved someone that strongly, he still does actually, he still can't forget about her and the love he had felt for her.
As ironic as it seems, he, the country of love, has been harboring a deep unrequited love to someone who's been dead for almost a thousand years.