During my college years I had the fortunate chance to become close friends with a sweet young woman named Aurore. She had a regal quality in the way she presented herself to those around her. It didn’t matter if you were a stranger or a mere acquaintance, she was capable of charming everyone with a combination of her dazzling smile and her amber eyes which, if exposed at the golden hour, would reflect golden speckles of light. Her unblemished skin, partnered with the softness of her rose-scented wavy hair, along with the colourful array of maxi skirts she often wore, made all of us think she must have jumped out straight from a fairytale book.

It was precisely what she desired, she confided to me once in secret. Her lifelong aspiration was to experience and find love of the same calibre as the fairytale stories she devoured in her childhood. Driven by my cynical disposition in matters of romance I never thought much of it, believing she was trying to gasuge some sort of reaction. I was proved mistaken.

She had fallen in love multiple times with varied sorts of characters over the span of our friendship. One more questionable than others. I was unable to keep count of the precise number of men knocking on our flat holding a rose bouquet. Yet, the only consistent thing all through this was the image of Aurore, knees close to her chest, crying all night on her bedroom floor. It was an endless cycle of consoling her amidst the haziness of college life and midterm exams. Soon I learned the only real remedy for her was finding someone else to pour all her affections into.

The day we graduated, we clung to each other both with a torrent of tears in our eyes, promising to keep in touch. Which we did for a couple of years until we drifted apart prompted by individual responsibilities.

It wasn't always endless nights spent on cheering her up. There were the good times too. Every summer she would invite me and a couple of our friends to spend a week or two at her family's summer house. We would have it all to ourselves. Together, we explored every nook and cranny of the baroque edifice, entertaining ourselves to dispel the boredom. On the cloudy days, when not a trace of the sun could be found, we would stroll downtown either by bike or on foot.

In those wistful summer days, the notion of a fairytale romance barely scratched the surface of Aurore's mind. To everyone else, it was a welcome reprieve from her charming eccentricities, but I, on the other hand, couldn’t help but wonder why her father seldom visited. The only indication my friend would have of his presence was the strong lingering scent of tobacco in a few selected rooms of the house. He was always absent from her life; barely showed himself to our graduation even. As far as everyone was concerned he was but a mythical figure in our collective imagination save for Aurore.

Years later, we crossed paths again at a delicate point in our lives. I had recently moved back to the familiar comfort of my parents' house, after another unsuccessful attempt at job hunting. While she, on the other hand, got caught up as expected, in a whirlwind romance only to end up heartbroken.

I ran into her at the same café we used to hang-out as students. She called out my name. Her cheery voice interrupted whatever reverie I was lost in, as I waited my turn in the queue. She had grown slimmer in a disconcertingly fashion. No matter how much concealer she applied, I could still identify the heavy set of eyebags on her once brilliant sunlight eyes. All that was left of her famous smile, was but a mere faint echo of the power they once possessed. The short detour turned on my grand adventure to job interviews transformed into an unexpected reunion with somebody who used to consider me her one true friend.

We took a seat at the edge of the store next to the window. Her favourite spot as I recalled. Despite her hollow energy, she still retained that air of regality I associated a lot with her. Coffee in hand, we talked about anything and everything as if no time passed at all. We giggled, feeling like our early twentysomethings selves, gossiping about who liked who and whining about the incoming deadlines.

When I was certain she had sufficiently relaxed around my presence, I asked in the most discreet way I could about her love life. She threw me a conspiratorial wink and after fidgeting with her left ring finger, began the tale of her recent heartbreak.

"I can't explain it," she started, her voice coated with resentment, "one moment he was calling me the love of his life, next thing I knew he starts complaining how much unhappy he is with me."

She moved to wipe away the droplets which began to take form in her eyes. I allowed her the courtesy of ignoring it, taking small, tentative sips instead. The coffee was unsavoury. It felt like I was drinking hot water dyed with mud.

"The petty arguments we had begun to escalate. It reached the point where we were shouting at one another, rather than talking with one another. I don't think he understood how deeply I was in love with him. I was determined to pull my heart out should he ask me. It was the kind of love I never felt with anybody else I have been."

"Not even with when you were dating Daryl?"

She waved off her hand. "Daryl was another thing entirely."

What about Gregg? Or Kurtis?"

"What are you getting at?!" she screamed, slamming the palm of her hands on the table. It garnering the interest of the few customers and the bartenders.

I took a deep breath. She had been my closest friend once upon a time. Someone had to tell her. She needed to stop throwing herself into a fairytale relationship, allowing it to consume her every single time simply to compensate for her need of something. Aurore looked at me aghast after I told her exactly that. Harsh may they have been, someone had to open her eyes. Without a word of parting, she gathered her coat and stormed off, leaving behind the scent of expensive rose perfume. She never reached out to me again.

Four months later, after coming back from a short trip overseas, a mutual friend informed me she had passed away. Aurore was buried at her family's mausoleum. A final act born out of paternal obligation from her father's part, I thought. I learned the circumstances of her death in an online article published by the local newspaper a few years after.

On the day of her death, Ash -- her ex -- received a package from her. It contained nothing more than a small cooler box. Inside he discovered, what he assumed at first glance, a freshly cut animal heart. His shock subsided, he immediately called the authorities to report Aurore's continuing harassment. When they sought her out at her flat, they were welcomed by a pungent smell and burnt smoke. Alarmed, they broke through the door only to turn pale as ghosts at the spectacle before them.

Aurore's bare body laid by the entryway. Clutched tightly in her left hand was a polaroid picture of her ex, while her dark stained right hand laid limp on her side. On her chest was a gaping hole. Through sheer brute force, she kept true to her word.

On the day of her funeral, the friends who went to pay their respect, declared she looked as though she was wearing a bittersweet expression so unlike her. I believe otherwise. She had achieved the fairytale love she had longed for at the cost of her own life. That knowledge enough may have put her mind at ease in her final moments.