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I have memorized your soul for a lifetime; you haven't even learned my name.
"You capture my eyes so well," Milk says, her voice a melody that Love has known for a hundred years. "It's like you know me."
Love grips the paintbrush until her knuckles turn white. She wants to say, 'I know the rhythms of your heart. I know how you sound when you cry. I know you.'
Instead, Love smiles the practiced smile of a stranger. "I'm just a fan," she lies.
Bound by fate but separated by memory, Love continues to paint the woman who forgot her, resigning herself to a lifetime of loving a stranger wearing her lover's face.
How do you mourn someone who is standing right in front of you?
Or where,
Love lives in the quiet ache of paint-stained silence, her brushes heavy with the weight of a thousand years. To the world, she is merely an admirer, a girl in the front row capturing a star. But every stroke on the canvas is a secret-a map of a soul she once held in a life Milk was allowed to forget. While Milk basks in the blinding heat of the spotlight, Love remains in the shadows, doomed to remember a history that now only exists in the drying oil of a stranger's portrait.