romance
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There was once a girl who kept a chair open at her table.A seat that stayed untouched, season after season,through evenings and early morning sunrises. She didn’t call it waiting—not out loud.For almost a year, she kept a candle burning in the window.silently wishing that whatever it was she was clinging to—A voice, an emotion,
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She wasn’t perfect. She knew that in the first place— Especially attractive, or the most intelligent person in the room. She wasn’t the type—the kind of woman who effortlessly warms the room, who always has the right words at the right moment, and who walks in and brightens everything. Those who make love seem effortless.
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On the corner of a peaceful street sits a little cafe, the kind of place where time stands still and the aroma of roasted coffee and unsaid words fills the air. People go there to reflect, to wait, to remember. She sit down by the window and trace absent patterns on the wooden table with
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There was a girl who built a house with love. She made the foundation with patience, brick by brick, molding it with laughter and late-night talks. She constructed the walls sturdy with trust, painted them with love, filled the hollows with dreams of eternities. And then one day, he entered. He didn’t knock—he just walked
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The plane hummed softly beneath her, a steady vibration filling the quiet spaces between her thoughts. The world below the window seemed to go on forever—patches of land, endless oceans, and clouds floating like specters over a place she had no intention of leaving. Two days ago, she made the reservation for this flight. She
life as poems 'n letters 