She was a painter, and she loved colors. She loved to mix, to blend, to create. She believed that colors were the essence of art, the way to express herself, the way to touch others.

He was a musician, and he loved sounds. He loved to compose, to play, to perform. He believed that sounds were the essence of music, the way to communicate himself, the way to move others.

They met at a gallery, admiring the same painting. She was captivated by his voice, he was enchanted by her eyes. They exchanged compliments, and then contacts. They agreed to meet again, for dinner and conversation.

They liked each other, and soon they fell in love. They shared their passions, their inspirations, their creations. They complemented each other, admired each other, inspired each other. They sang together, painted together, danced together.

They wanted to be together, but fate disagreed with them. They had a problem, a obstacle, a tragedy. He was diagnosed with a disease, a terminal disease, a rare disease. He had no cure, no hope, no time. He told her the truth, and broke her heart, and broke his own.

They tried to be together, but it was too hard. They faced pain, fear, anger. They fought with each other, with themselves, with the world. They cried together, screamed together, suffered together.

They decided to create a masterpiece, and they were desperate. They combined colors and sounds, in a farewell of art and music. They expressed their love, their grief, their goodbye. They presented their work, to the world and to each other. They felt sad, and also empty. They felt they had lost everything, but also nothing.

He died, and she was alone. She had no colors, no sounds, no life. She had a masterpiece, but she hated it. She had a love story, but she never told it!