Different

He was an artist.

He molded thoughts into sculptures, scribbled dreams into novels, colored feelings into white canvases. When he met her, she was caught up in the whirlwind of concrete emotions. He could show her what love was, literally, on a scrawled image on a napkin, in a whistle of a tune, in a typewritten poem.

When they sat in the car, staring at a full moon, at a curious swirl in the clouds, he gave them to her on a piece of paper, he wrote them into a story, capturing their moment in permanence. When they lay in silence in the dark, the glow of her puny bedroom light basking their bodies, casting strange puppet shadows on the wall, he immortalized them in his paintings.


However sooner or later she started to realize something. Something strange, something a little... off.


The stories, the paintings, the songs, the poems. Reading through them, she never recognized herself in them. She was a prop figure, featureless in the darkness, as blank as the face of the moon they were staring at.


She was never there. It was never about her. She was just another channel to express himself.


She was his work of art.