Ink

"I'll never be something you want, will I?" she asked, body curled inwards as if she were hurt and broken. He played her like a marionette, but it wasn't all his fault. He told her what he felt, she knew his true intentions.

His eyes drifted to her as he sat on the wooden stool across the room before his easel. A black pen ink pen was tucked behind his ear. That pen behind his ear was why they both broke their promises to themselves.

A simple object like that, branding them with heartbreak and sorrow not for just each other, but themselves. It was a sharp pain to both of them, ripping their hearts right from their chest. They were exposed and exhausted. There was no happily ever after here, not with broken promises like these.

"You'll always be a muse to me," he answered softly, plucking his ink pen from behind his ear.

Carefully, he drew her on white paper, staining it with black ink.

"I'll be the ink to your paper," she whispered, and his brown eyes met her teary blue ones. Black rivers fell from her eyes, and he licked his lips. "I can promise that much."

He smiled, a broken smile, but it was still a smile.