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All the colour disappeared from her world the day she moved in with him.
It’s minimalist, he told her. A blank canvas.
Surely, a blank canvas exists for the sole purpose of being filled, she wanted to say.
But didn’t, because it was all too new, too fresh, too…him. And more than anything else, she wanted him.
As time went on she still wanted him, but she faded in his company. Faded until she no longer stood out against the bare and empty walls of their home. Faded into the background, too afraid to upset the balance, the status quo, his mood.
He found out – too soon – that minimalist, simple living didn’t guarantee a long and simple life.
She bought herself, literally, out of the greyness of mourning with a bright pink skirt, a rainbow striped mug, and a single yellow rose in a vase on the mantelpiece.
A daub or two on the blank canvas at last, because with him gone, she was free to paint the world any colour she wanted.