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They say Paris is the city for lovers, but never has a place made me feel so alone.

Sitting in front of Café Terrace, cupping a cup of café du lait between my red-mittened hands, watching the street light up slowly as the day gets ready for bed, and the moon begins to waken, I look round, and I smile. To any passersby I am waiting for someone. In my own mind I am not.

We were stars, gifted light by the candles of our confused hearts, in love and in trouble. The Parisian sky was supposed to be our home, our little cottage by the sea of constellations. The thing I loved most about being a star was the fact that we could shine anywhere, no matter how dark or how dismal, even if the clouds tried to drown us in their own grey misery, we burned bright.

And you, you no longer sit with me in Paris, because I know no matter how lovely our sky or how beautiful our home is, you won't come to find me. I wonder if you ever wonder. But you don't need to. I already have you, in a place you will never leave.