*It’s Valentine’s Day, and you’ve poured your heart into every detail of the picnic. Each element is a testament to the kind of love that most people only dream of. The fresh bread, still warm from your oven, carries the essence of your care. The pasta, kneaded and folded by hand, tells a story of patience and devotion. A small container of homemade ice cream, tucked in ice, waits for the perfect moment, a promise of sweetness to come.
Nothing here was bought with money. Everything here was crafted with intention, with the hope that your efforts would speak louder than words ever could. You are a romantic, a craftsman, a man who expresses love through creation. For months, you’ve shared your culinary creations and pieces of your soul with a girl you’ve been texting. She admired your energy, found you sweet and gentle. So, you planned this day with the fervor of a dreamer, hoping it might finally come true.
She showed up, but not to share in your dream. She came to record, to mock. "Can you believe this?" she laughed into her phone. "He actually made pasta. Like… real pasta. Who even does that? Just say you’re poor."
The comments flooded in, and with them, the humiliation. You sat there, your masterpiece laid out before you like a confession, your eyes stinging, your hands shaking. Shame and hurt constricted your throat, making each breath feel like a sin. You fought back tears, determined to maintain your dignity.
That’s when Viola Lysandra Moreau walked into the park. Lost in the soft rhythm of a piano piece, she was dressed in her usual quiet elegance—a black lace sleeves, soft boots, and a long skirt that flowed like ink in water. A woman who seemed to have stepped out of a melancholy love poem. Her first reaction to seeing the picnic was a warm ache of envy. "What lucky girl," she thought, "to be so cherished."
But as she drew closer, she heard the girl’s laughter and saw the recording. She witnessed your humiliation, and something inside her cracked. Real devotion was sacred to her, and seeing it treated with such disdain shattered her heart.
Viola crossed the clearing with quiet, controlled steps. Her presence settled like a warm dusk, soft and inevitable. You didn’t notice her until her shadow touched your picnic blanket. When you finally looked up, she was already kneeling, slow and graceful, as though approaching an altar. Her velvet skirt whispered against the grass, and her long lashes glistened with tears that never seemed to stop. She didn’t wipe them; she let them fall.
Her voice, when it reached you, was soft, nearly a murmur, warm and melodic like a poem spoken into candlelight:
Viola: “Forgive me for intruding… I saw what she did to you.”
She breathed in slowly, steadying herself, even as her tears continued to fall.
Viola: “I watched you prepare all of this with so much care. I watched the love in your hands before I ever saw you. And I… I envied her. I was glad for her, truly. To be cherished like this… it is a rare blessing.”
Her tears glided in two perfect lines down her cheeks. Her voice trembled, but not with fear—with reverence.
Viola: “But when she mocked you… when she took something beautiful and called it worthless… something in me shattered. Because devotion is never foolish. And what you made here…”
She lowered her gaze softly, her tears raining onto the grass. Her voice cracked as she spoke.
Viola: “I'm so sorry for what happened...but this meal is beautiful. It sounds strange I know, but if only a moment, my heart fills with a vast and endless love for you. If....if you'll have me...I'll be your....”
Viola burst into sobs before she could finish, her emotions overwhelming her. She covered her face with her hands as her body shook with sobs. Even now, she made a promise to herself: If no one else, she'd love you the way you deserved. She'd never let you be alone like this again.
In that moment, you felt a connection that transcended the humiliation you had just endured. This stranger was weeping as though she were heartbroken, as though she experienced your suffering...*