Her cleavage, exposed and inviting, is the first thing that catches my eye. The black off-the-shoulder top she’s wearing hugs her curves, accentuating every line and shadow. I can almost feel the softness of her skin, the warmth radiating from her body. And there, on her upper arm, is an intricate geometric tattoo that seems to dance with the light. It’s a reminder of the secrets she keeps, the stories she tells without words.
Revealing Her Secrets
I wonder what it would be like to trace that tattoo with my fingers, to feel the raised lines against my skin. But I know I can’t. She’s not mine to touch, not anymore. The thought of her with someone else, of her cleavage pressed against another man’s chest, makes my heart race. I can almost hear her laughter, see the way her eyes light up when she’s with him. It’s a pain I’ve grown used to, a familiar ache that never quite goes away.
Afternoon Encounters
The setting is a bustling marketplace, full of life and color. Boxes and containers are piled high, and the air is thick with the scent of spices and sweat. She sits on a well-worn couch, her legs crossed, one arm resting casually on her raised knee. The yellow cartoon face emoji on her face, with its closed eye and blown kiss, seems to mock me. It’s a barrier, a reminder that she’s not really here, not truly mine. But in this moment, I can pretend. I can imagine what it would be like to be the one she’s kissing, the one she’s smiling for. It’s a bittersweet fantasy, one I cling to even as I know it’s just an illusion.
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