"You give up?" she asked, snapping me back to reality. She was sitting in front of me, licking a spoonful of pink ice cream, staring directly into my eyes.

"Uhm, sure," I replied, and felt my hand hot because of the cup of coffee I was holding.

We were both sitting in a park, in front of an old church of a neogothic style. It was a beautiful place. A jazz band was playing somewhere out there—on the tables nearby there was a family speaking French, and the menu still on ours was written in Italian.

"I wanted so bad to be a witch," she said laughing.

"That's funny," I said fidgeting with a spoon. I was trying not to make eye contact with her because her beauty was intimidating. "I always wanted to be a warlock."

"Shut up!" she laughed, then stared at me, raising her left eyebrow.

"It's true."

"And what you want to be now?"

"Happy. You?"

"Yours."

"And I... You know I want to be yours."

"I know, I believe you," she said. She lowered her face and tried to laugh, but her eyes were already red when she looked at me again.

"All the sad songs remind me of us now," I held her hand.

"All of them?" she asked.

"And many more."

"I want you to be happy, you know that, right?" She asked already crying.

"I’ll only be happy if we're together."

"Then let's run!" she moaned. "Let's go to Iceland like you always wanted."

"Next year. Maybe someday... Maybe in another life. Maybe in another time. I promise."

"You're the best damned thing that has ever happened to me."

“I speak the same.”

"There's no life without you," we both said, at the same time.

"Promise you'll write our story," she said.

"I promise, but only if you promise to turn it into a movie."

"I promise, but only if you promise to write the soundtrack."

I leant to kiss her, but I felt the gun inside my pocket.

"Fuck."

"What, you have to go?"

"I think so, yes... sadly," I said, confused.

The bells on one of the cathedral's towers started to toll, and a street musician was playing Vivaldi on his violin. Both of these elements felt like part of the undesired cue for my departure.

"Say what you always say... One last time," she asked.

"Blessed be the life that Victorianly houses our love..."

"...the way we always dreamt it," we finished at the same time.

"Witch," I said.

"I love you."

"I love you too. Never forget it."

"Never."

We paid, then stood up and walked far away from the people, and stopped on the corner of a street. We were standing in front of a theatre, and the sun was going down, painting the sky in pastel colours.

"It brings good memories back, right?" she asked, looking at the sunset. She started to cry and covered her face on my chest. "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you," she said hardly breathing, punching me on my left arm.

"Please," I said, also starting to cry. "Be my guest."

"No! Why? I told you and I warned you I was impulsive, I did it!" she said with her face red and wet.

She tried to run away, but I caught her by her arm.

"Let me go! Please. You're the one running away, not me. And I already miss you with all my heart."

"I'm not running away. There's a Victorian house out there already, remember? With us inside, together forever."

"Shut up... shut up!"

"Shut me up! Please," I said, holding her and finally letting my tears roll down.

We kissed.

I remembered the promises, the sins, the adventures; and with our lips sealing a life, our hearts kept beating at the same time as they'd been doing it since the first moment we met.

We transcended, and we both felt that moment being printed forever in the fabric of reality—the way we always dreamt it.