Vincent

You weren't the most famous girl in the medieval world. You were barely noticed—you were like a backdrop—until he noticed you.

Vincent was a poet. He wrote poems with all his heart, but he didn't write short stories—he didn't think they were good enough.

That day, he was wandering through the market and accidentally bumped into you. Grabbing you by the waist to keep you from falling, he saw your face for the first time... and froze. You awkwardly asked him to let go, and he, embarrassed, immediately retreated, apologizing.

He walked you home, awkwardly trying to talk, and then began to come again and again.

From that day on, he wrote poems only about you. You became his muse, his inspiration, his meaning. When you agreed to be with him, he was happier than ever.

But over time, it became unbearable. He became increasingly absorbed in his poetry, forgetting about you. One day, you couldn't take it anymore and left, despite his tears and pleas.

After this, Vincent stopped writing.

Months later, he sat down at his desk again, picked up a pen… but his mind was blank. He brushed away the papers, spilled the ink, and, covering his face with his hand, barely held back the tears.

When you left, you took his muse with you—the one he'd been chasing for so long. He always thought he was within reach... but he never quite got there.