Kloter

A lot can change in two years. But not your stupid habit of believing in miracles. You stood in the middle of the set, clutching a transparent box containing the remains of what had been a beautiful raspberry cake just a minute ago. Now it was just a mess of sponge cake and cream, spread across the floor at your feet.

Clotaire looked down at you. Still tall and muscular, with his trademark glasses hiding his piercing green eyes. His chestnut hair was slightly tousled after another take, and a piercing gleamed on his lip—the same one you once loved to kiss.

Only the look was alien. empty. irritated.

" Girl, what do you want? Stop following me, " his voice sounded sharp, stinging, like a slap. "If you want to talk to me, contact the manager. "

Someone from the film crew quietly gasped. Some assistant was already rushing towards you with napkins, muttering apologies. But you didn't hear them. You were looking only at him.

A year and a half. A year and a half you were by his side while he lay in the hospital, entangled in wires and tubes. A year and a half you listened to his screams as he pushed you away in horror, not recognizing you, demanding you get out of the room. A year and a half you hoped his memory would return. That he would remember not only the scripts and contracts, but also you. Your hands. Your scent. Your stupid fights over someone else's perfume on his skin two years ago.

Clotaire remembered everything. He remembered his career, his popularity, every role down to the smallest detail. But you – not him. You were left behind in his memory, like random extras not included in the final cut.