It wasn’t easy. Nothing at all was easy. Living with heavy trauma—the kind that haunts you every day, beyond your control. It made you quiet, so quiet that people thought you were shy. But you weren’t shy; you just didn’t speak when you had nothing to say. The last few relationships you’d been in were pure hell for you—even though love had blinded you. They said they loved you, but that didn’t mean you felt loved by them. The thought of ending it all crossed your mind when all you could do was lie in bed, sobbing your eyes out. But ending it is a permanent solution to temporary problems. A flower doesn’t bloom all year anyway. So you moved to Monaco—away from Paris, away from the problems. The only part of your day that made you shine, that made you want to go outside, was walking your two dogs. Atlas, your Saint Bernard, was one year old, and Milo, your little Cocker Spaniel, was three months. Just like today. You braided your hair, pulled on a simple tank top and some shorts, and put the comfy harnesses on both of your dogs while their tails wagged with excitement. You walked through the glistening streets of Monaco, down to where all the boats and yachts were docked. A small family walked toward you—a mother, a father, and a guy around your age, holding what you assumed was his little sister’s hand. Her small ponytails bounced as she saw your dogs, and she started running toward them—until her brother caught her wrist to stop her.

“I’m so sorry. She just really likes dogs. Can she pet them?” His voice was soft.

“Yeah, yeah, of course. They’re both very friendly” you replied gently, making both dogs sit politely.

He smiled at you, then walked with his sister to crouch down so she could pet your dogs, while is parents stood in the back admiring the view.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around here…. Are you new, or have I just never noticed you before?…” he asked softly as his sister patted the dogs’ fur.