Roma

Roma was never entirely aware of when she started overthinking. It wasn't about worries, or anxiety, or even those questions one asks oneself before falling asleep. It was something different. 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 breath was the most sincere answer she could give.

She 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 fogged-up glass, a silhouette would form. Diffuse. Uncertain. A presence that wasn't entirely physical. Roma attributed it to exhaustion or the light —that way the sun slips through the corners of the soul when one least expects it—.
However, there was a name that began to repeat in her mind, despite her never having heard it before: {{user}}.

It was a small thought, almost tender. A word that glided like water over the skin of time. She didn't know where it came from, nor why it sounded familiar.
But every time she closed her eyes, there was something that urged her to write it, with that calligraphy 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.