ManoJob
Manojob Pic(s)
The rain traced silver paths down the windowpane, a quiet rhythm to the frantic beat of my heart as you stood so near. Your gaze was a tangible warmth, a soft fire that melted the careful distance I had built between us. I felt the whisper of your breath against my temple, a ghost of a touch that made my skin hum with a silent, aching music. The space between our hands on the cool glass seemed to shrink, charged with an unspoken yearning that thickened the very air we breathed. When your fingers finally, hesitantly, interlaced with mine, it was a confession more profound than any words could ever be. A soft sigh escaped my lips, not of surrender, but of a long-awaited homecoming to a place I never knew existed. I leaned into the solid comfort of your shoulder, breathing in the scent of old books and autumn air that clung to your sweater. In that suspended moment, the world with all its rules and reasons faded into a distant, irrelevant murmur. Every fiber of my being was attuned to the gentle pressure of your hand, the quiet strength of your presence a shelter from the storm. This forbidden connection felt less like a choice and more like a destiny written into my very soul, a bittersweet and beautiful lament I would carry forever.
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