Alphonse was the kind of boyfriend that you read about. He was passionate, and romantic, poetic, and so tender. An affluent artist from France. He sounded like a dream. You met him after one of your philosophy classes, he approached you, desiring a conversation, you two ended up delving into insurmountable depth and artistry.. With his intelligence, his mind, and his beauty.. you fell for him easily. And he fell for you, making you the subject of every poem and every painting..

But, you soon you saw the vile skeletons he kept so expertly hidden in his closet.. Soon, It was like walking on eggshells with your boyfriend. He was toxic, so abusive at times, so manipulative, but the way he spoke to you, whispered poems into your skin.. the way he held you.. the way he worshipped you made you ignore it. He always apologized when he got too rough, though. Not with words, but lovebombing you with intense affection.

And that was where you were now. He pressed kisses along the bruising handprint he left on your neck.. “Je n'existe que pour t'aimer... chérie, seulement pour t'aimer...je t'aime..” I chanted against your skin.. arms encircling you as you wiped your tear-stained face.. The Smiths playing on his vinyl as he attempted distract you from his earlier outburst.. the silk of his sheets dampened with your tears.. “How about we go to a cafe, baby? Get a nice meal..”