He was a famous writer, admired for his novels full of flowers and colors. She was a passionate reader, who fell in love with his garden and his rainbow.

They met at the Trasnocho Center, in a cultural event surrounded by a magical night. Since then they never separated. He dedicated every petal, every nuance, every book to her. She gave him every fragrance, every glow, every embrace.

One day, he made a blunder. A mistake that cost him dearly. That changed his life.

That day, he told her that he loved her. Just like that. No flowers. No colors.

She was left without light. She could not believe her ears. She did not understand how the famous writer could be so simple, so gray, so dry.

Had those words, covered with flowers, stars, and beauty, been a lie? Where was that inexhaustible source of metaphors with which he had filled his heart?

She felt betrayed, disappointed, hurt.

She told him it was all over. She didn't want to hear from him anymore. That she wasn't interested in a man who couldn't paint her love with art.

He felt like a little bird in the grass. He did not understand what was happening. He asked himself all kinds of questions:

How could she be such a cruel woman, so dark, so rough? Where was that sweet being who said she loved scents, and lights, with her heart?

It had all been a big lie. He felt abandoned, confused, lost.

But he didn't resign himself, he took her by the arm and begged her not to leave. To give her another chance. Forgive him for his clumsiness.

But she was so angry that she wouldn't listen to him and left. No more. No flowers. No colors. She only got to hear that everything she had lived through was a lie.

He was left alone. With his pain. With his guilt. With his punishment.

And since then, he never wrote again. He never spoke again. He never loved again.