Mon histoire

Previously

…She traced the rim of her wine glass, the condensation cool against her fingertips. Her studio, usually a place of solace, now felt like a cage, the unfinished canvases a testament to her divided attention. The vibrant hues she had so carefully mixed seemed dulled, her inspiration a flickering candle in a strong wind. She replayed their conversations, the tender reassurances, the shared laughter, trying to anchor herself to the certainty of their connection. But the whispers of doubt, the old ghosts of past hurts, were never far behind, their insidious murm