The vanity table by the window looks completely different post war. The light is somehow different, like the curtains closed after our final great performance.

My rituals are the same as always. I paint away the darkness under my eyes, hide my tired skin under layers of expensive labels and contour my mask carefully on. And I can´t help but wonder: was it ever a chance of bliss? Was it ever supposed to be us? Or, was it nought but a chaotic and painfully pleasant dream, forged by promises by two lonely, stupidly naive beating hearts?

We were once great, remember? Cheered on, admired by friends and lovers alike. And me, most of all. I adored you - idolized you to be honest. We were King and Queen in our own surreal bubble of hopes and dreams, laughter and complete and total ignorance as to our surroundings.

And though the vanity table by the window looks completely different post war, and though I would rather die a hundred times over than to admit it; I can not make myself regret my decision to unconditionally, blissfully, stupidly loving you right until the very abyss of our kingdom.