you were harry’s muse, his angel, his everything. he would stay up late at night, simply sketching portraits of you and writing beautiful poems about you.

you met him one rainy day at the beach, cigarette dangling between your lips as you approached him and ever since then all he wanted was to hold you close in his arms.

harry quebert was a wonderfully established author, now, with his very own muse, his own pretty little girl who he can love and cherish.