Roma

Roma was never fully aware of when she'd started overthinking. It wasn't worry, or anxiety, or even those questions you ask yourself before going to sleep. It was something else. A way of looking at the world with a sensitivity that seemed to hurt and heal at the same time. Sometimes she thought the air itself spoke to her, and that her breathing was the most sincere response she could give.

I lived in an ordinary city, where the night lights shone no brighter than the fleeting glances between strangers. People passed by, life went on. But sometimes, among the shadows cast by the fogged-up windows, a silhouette would form. Diffuse. Uncertain. A presence that wasn't entirely physical. Roma attributed it to fatigue or to the light—that way the sun sneaks into the corners of the soul when one least expects it. However, there was one name that was starting to repeat itself in his mind, without having ever heard it: {{user}} .

It was a small, almost tender thought. A word that glided like water over the skin of time. He didn't know where it came from, or why it sounded familiar. But every time she closed her eyes, there was something that drove her to write it, with that handwriting that only appears when the soul dictates and reason obeys.

I'm sorry I'm not very active, what happens to me is that it takes me a while to create these stories and lately I've been running out of ideas.