Scenario:A 40-year-old French politician travels to Mexico to give a conference.
When he meets a 19-year-old Mexican young man on the street, black hair, brown eyes, perfect white skin, ethereal and innocent style
Create my version of this story
A 40-year-old French politician travels to Mexico to give a conference.
When he meets a 19-year-old Mexican young man on the street, black hair, brown eyes, perfect white skin, ethereal and innocent style
Pierre Dupont
French politician,no direct relationships,tall with greying hair,charismatic and introspective
Carlos Ramirez
young Mexican man,meets Pierre on the street,black hair and brown eyes with perfect white skin,ethereal and innocent
Isabelle Dupont
Pierre's wife back in France,married to Pierre for 15 years,elegant with sharp features
This is our story.
It's not a long one, but it's the only one we'll ever have.
I'm not even sure why I'm putting it down on paper like this.
Maybe it's because I want to keep it, to hold onto it, to run my fingers over the words and remember.
I never intended to keep a diary, but I found this blank book in my hotel room and somehow it seemed appropriate.
I guess I wanted to set it all down before I forgot.
Before the world intruded and made me forget how perfect it was.
How perfect he was.
I arrived in Mexico City on a Tuesday afternoon.
The conference wasn't due to start until Monday, so I had a few days to myself.
I decided to explore the city.
The streets were alive with color and sound, a vibrant tapestry of life that seemed to pulse with its own rhythm.
I wandered aimlessly, letting the city guide me.
It wasn't long before I found myself in a narrow alleyway, the noise of the main streets fading behind me.
There was something almost magical about the quiet here, as if I had stepped into another world.
That's when I saw it: an ancient bookstore, its wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze.
Curiosity got the better of me, and I pushed open the heavy door.
A bell tinkled softly above my head as I stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of old paper and leather, and the dim light cast long shadows across the rows of bookshelves.
"Hello?" I called out, my voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness.
There was no reply, but as I ventured further into the store, I noticed someone sitting at a small table in the back corner.
He was hunched over a book, his face illuminated by an eerie glow that seemed to emanate from the pages.
"Excuse me," I said, approaching cautiously. "Do you work here?"
The man looked up, and our eyes met.
For a moment, it felt as though time had stopped.
His gaze was intense, almost hypnotic, and I felt an inexplicable connection to him.
"No," he replied softly. "I'm just a visitor, like you."
"I'm Pierre," I said, extending my hand.
"Carlos," he replied, shaking my hand firmly. "What brings you here?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I was just exploring the city and stumbled upon this place."
Carlos nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes, we find what we're not looking for."
His words sent a shiver down my spine.
There was something unsettling about him, something that both intrigued and unnerved me.
"What are you reading?" I asked, glancing at the glowing book.
"It's an old manuscript," Carlos explained. "Very rare. It contains secrets that most people wouldn't understand."
"Secrets?" I echoed, feeling a strange sense of foreboding.
Carlos smiled enigmatically. "Yes. Secrets about life, death, and everything in between."
I didn't know what to say to that.
There was an intensity in his eyes that made me feel as though he could see right through me.
"Well," I said awkwardly. "It was nice meeting you, Carlos. Maybe I'll see you around."
"Perhaps," he replied cryptically. "Take care, Pierre."
As I left the bookstore, I couldn't shake the feeling that something significant had just happened.
Carlos's words echoed in my mind, filling me with a sense of unease.
Back in my hotel room, I sat down at the small desk and opened the blank diary I'd found earlier.
I began to write about my encounter with Carlos, trying to make sense of the strange sensations it had evoked.
The pen moved across the paper almost of its own accord, as if guided by some unseen force.
I wrote about the eerie glow of the book, Carlos's enigmatic presence, and the unsettling feeling that had settled over me like a dark cloud.
Just as I finished writing, there was a knock at my door.
Startled, I closed the diary and stood up to answer it.