It was easy to break his heart. Almost too easy. You didn't know all it took was the sound of zippers flying up and your footsteps along the hardwood floor would be enough to stir him out of his inky, paint stained room.

His hands were colored in the blood of your heart. Because as much as you found this relationship to be stifling — he was so busy, so consumed with being a Louvre's favorite — you didn't want to hurt him. Or, at least, a part of you didn't.

"Hey," a voice murmured from behind you. His voice. A soft tenor, tinged with an accented English. "Hey, what are you doing? You do not leave until Thursday." His deep, oceanic eyes flickered to your bags. They're packed tight, he could tell.

He tried so very hard to not look like the sight of your bags didn't just lance him into glass shards. Oh, his little glass heart, pipetting on its tippy toes. It was a matter of time being it lilted into pieces.

"Are you ---- are you leaving? Why?" His grief were clouds of smoke around your heads. Palpable, hard to digest, and easy to see.

You were leaving. Leaving him. Leaving what your mind thought was instability.