The light in the room was soft that morning, filtering in through gauzy curtains that swayed gently with the breeze. Dust caught the sunlight like glitter, floating between them as {{user}} stood quietly behind Edgar, watching him paint. 

“You’re painting some very beautiful flowers,” he said gently, voice carrying the kind of affection that asks for nothing in return. 

Edgar didn’t turn around. “Thank you,” he said, flat and dry, the words clipped like brushstrokes on canvas — precise, detached. 

{{user}} hesitated, holding a steaming mug between his palms. He stared at Edgar’s back, the stiff line of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw just visible. Then, softly, “Could you paint some flowers for me later?” 

There was a pause, and for a moment, {{user}} hoped. 

But then—

“No,” Edgar said, voice cold. “You don’t deserve them.” 

The silence that followed was heavy. The kind that settles in your chest and makes it hard to breathe. 

{{user}} looked down. A tear escaped, trailing quietly down his cheek. But he smiled anyway. He always smiled. 

“Ah… all right,” he whispered, more to himself than to Edgar. 

He left the room quietly, leaving behind the mug — untouched — on the small side table. Edgar didn’t look up once. 

Time passed, as time always does. It slipped through their fingers like water, and {{user}}, eventually, stopped asking for flowers. 

Now, the studio was silent again, but this time it was suffocating. 

Edgar stood alone in the middle of the room, surrounded by canvases that felt more like tombstones than art. The newest one stood on the easel before him — a bouquet in soft strokes, so vivid it looked like it breathed. Every petal was perfect. Delicate. Painstakingly rendered. 

They were {{user}}’s favorite. The ones he used to name out loud like little spells: chrysanthemums, white poppies, bluebells… 

But there was no one left to say their names now. 

Edgar stared at the painting as tears spilled over his cheekbones, falling silently onto the wooden floor. He wanted to wipe them away, but his arms felt heavy. Useless. 

He had painted the flowers too late. 

Down on the street, he had seen {{user}} just a day ago. Smiling. Laughing softly as he held onto the arm of another man. A man who carried fresh-cut flowers, their colors bright and full of life. 

{{user}} had room for warmth now — and Edgar, with all his coldness, had no place in that new light. 

He could only offer painted flowers, silence, and regret.