It was one of those summer afternoons that stay with you for reasons you can’t quite explain.
We went out together, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, carrying with us the lightness of the day. The air smelled of flowers, and the sun was beginning to turn golden, soft, almost romantic.
We sat in the open gardens, where everything seemed to slow down. The world became delicate: as if made of embroidered tulle, light plumetis, and gauzes that floated in the breeze.
The light touched the fabrics as if awakening them.
Everything had its own color: natural whites, soft greens, serene blues, deep navy, warm nudes, and yellows like the last ray of sunlight.
The afternoon passed amidst soft laughter and beautiful silence, as if it too were made of natural silks, delicate jacquards, and cool piqués.
And without realizing it, time passed slowly, mingling with the fragrance of the flowers.
It wasn’t just a picnic.
It was an afternoon that felt like an eternal memory.
The afternoon of the picnic amidst the scent of flowers.