A woman, two men. Each one so diverse in existence. In personalities, in manifestations, in experiences, in kindness, in hopes and dreams. But, each one in love. One man providing the security, guidance and encouragement she seeks. The other a fireball of passion and palpable strength that heroes are made of. Each one so diverse in their being. She chooses not for the fear of being left again in that dark corner, just one woman. One woman. Solitary and unappreciated. Fearful and lonely. Analysis paralysis. Each tiny step each day with the first man only surpassed and succeeded by the other. Like they knew, like they were in competition with each other. But of course that was not true. Neither knew the existence of the other. Each one thinking every additional swell of emotion marked the proliferation of their love. She is in her selfishness and fear for the most part, aware of the beautiful disaster she was creating. Just like the strokes of her brushes, one stroke, two stroke, each one adding to the chaos on the canvas. Each one so diverse in their existence. Each one brilliant on their own, but each one so aggrandized by the other. She knew that. There was always some joy in knowing herself as the cause of such a beautiful web. One woman, two men. Each one so diverse in existence, each one so complemented by the flaws each other. Each one non-existent were it not for the other.