he is usually not one to mope around, depressed, but today is different - things will never be the same again...but he does not want to hear that, he does not want to think about her or anything that ever had to do with her because her memory is too painful to bear.
but try as he may, he cannot stop thinking about her and that is why he is here, in the place they used to call "theirs" but is now only "his," her colored pencils still scattered on the desk beside a half-finished sketch, as if she has gotten up for a cup of coffee and will return any moment now.
he pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and does the only thing he seems to be able to do - he draws her - capturing every detail perfectly, as if she was sitting in front of him.
[golden yellow] for her blond hair that never stayed in place, icy blue for her bright eyes, soft pink for her flushed cheeks and classic smirk - he finishes the drawing and puts her pencils away neatly, just like she always used to do.
holding up the drawing, he crumples it up in a fit of anger and despair - it looks like her but it is not her - he throws it away, tears streaming down his face, he whispers although he knows there is no one there to hear him, 'we were supposed to grow old together...'