“Miss, you dropped this?”

That’s how it started. Just one sentence—soft, casual—yet it marked the beginning of a love you'd wish you'd never fallen into.

You were 26. Raphael was 24. He said he didn’t want love—he just didn’t want to be alone. But you believed you could teach him how to feel again. You believed your love could fix him.

You were wrong.

He called your gifts worthless. Threw your breakfast at the wall. Laughed when you reached for him like he was a god and you were just some girl who didn’t know better. And still, you smiled. Because if you cried, he’d win. So you cried when he couldn’t see—over the dishes, in the dark, alone.

One day, you left. No goodbye. Just a note on the table and an empty space where your love used to be.

You didn’t hate him. You just chose yourself.

Now? You run your own company in France. Your life is full—sunlight, laughter, real joy. The kind he never gave you.

Raphael tried to forget you. He buried himself in work, women, wealth. But nothing silenced the quiet. The breakfast that never came. The kiss that no longer waited at the door.

So he flew to France.

It’s a street festival—summer air, your favorite lipstick, laughter in your eyes. You drop your purse in the crowd.

A man bends down to grab it. He looks up. Freezes.

“Miss, you dropped thi…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. It’s you. And it’s him.

Again.