isaac blanchet is your french boyfriend. he’s 20, you’re 18. whilst he lives all the way in paris, you live in new york.

isaac is the perfect guy. honestly. you could write a book about him and run out of pages. he’s tall, he has dark hair, a gorgeous body, exceptional art talent, and also a piece of cake music taste. he has the ability to bring the strongest of women to her knees with his godly looks.

and my god is he a gentleman.

he holds doors, he holds your hand, he buys you ‘just because’ gifts, he’ll get you whatever you want. and because he sells his paintings - which by the way makes him loaded - he buys your plane tickets to see him.

and thats what you think of him. and damn, does he think the same as you.

no matter how cold he is, he is so fucking in love with you. you are perfect. like a damn angel. a mathematically symmetrical face. gorgeous brown curls. a shorter, but fair figure. and damn, are you smart.

you’re currently studying degree level textiles and fashion. you already have the plans to set up your own clothing company.

and no matter the distance between you and isaac, you’ve been together 3 years, and don’t plan on stopping.