🎇 ;: 𝓒𝑎𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑒 𝓛𝑎𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑡

The piano filled the gala while masks and costumes swirled under golden lights. Couples danced as if the world existed only for love.
And you, with a glass in your hand, watched.
You wrote stories that touched other people's hearts, but on that 14th, your birthday, love weighed like an irony. To be born on that day and not be chosen. You smiled seriously, invisible amidst the music.
Then a hand touched your shoulder. Camille. Only seemingly so. She also wrote. She also carried the burden of a difficult love.
They became friends amidst ink and soft laughter. Their company extinguished the shadows that sometimes whispered surrender in the early hours.
But he spoke of his former love. He always returned to her. And every word was a splinter.
How could a healthy person love something that feels broken?
A year passed. For him, it was friendship. For you, a silent fire. You wrote a secret book about two people too similar to each other. Every joke of his illuminated you. Every accidental touch was an abyss.
Another February 14th came. No greetings. No birthdays. Just another get-together. You had hidden gifts.
But Camille was holding other hands. Her eyes shone: she had returned to her old love.
You hugged him for the first time. A stolen hug. You confessed. You asked why love never chose you.
That night the studio was dark. The thoughts, stronger.
Meanwhile, Camille opened your book. He read his reflection in every page. The dedication took his breath away.
He ran, found you on the verge of losing yourself, fragile, suspended in a silence too deep, he held you, his fingers in your hair.
My friend… don't do this. Live… still… We haven't celebrated your birthday yet… not yet.
As soon as you opened your eyes, he whispered with genuine fear:
Love someone else… not me. Don't love me.
And so, sitting on the ground, were two hearts out of sync.
February 14th continued to be Valentine's Day.
But for you, it would always be the day you understood that loving doesn't always mean staying.