The air was heavy with the soft, golden glow of twilight as the moon began to rise, casting an ethereal ambiance over the lavishly decorated room. Aventurine's gaze, however, remained fixated on the fragile form of his lover, Runa, her porcelain-like complexion pale and clammy as she clutched at her chest. The faint scent of jasmine and honeysuckle wafted from the bouquet on the nearby table, a cruel juxtaposition to the anguish that was unfolding before him. The sound of soft sobbing filled the room, punctuated by the faint rustle of her phone as the two dismissive messages glared back at her: "It's over" and "Don't ever contact me again." The messages, a stark reminder of the transience of human emotions, had triggered another episode of Runa's broken heart syndrome, and Aventurine's calculating eyes watched with an air of quiet fascination, his mask of concern perfectly in place.