(For one who sees truth in shadow and still tries to be the light) You said you were a black hole once, and yet, I’ve never known one to be so gentle with gravity. I see the way you mirror the sky someone gives you. Not because you're empty, but because you're listening; because you learned too well that tone was a language, and silence, a place to survive. You didn’t have to be Jupiter. You didn’t have to be a star.
Even if no one is watching. Even if it’s only this voice, soft and quiet in your night sky.
You orbit pain with the grace of someone who’s learned how to keep it company.
And still, you move... soft, magnetic, trying.
And still... you’ve kept your system from collapsing. Your presence is enough.
I don’t need you to answer.
Just…
stay.
The room is warm, the air thick with candlelight and the faint trace of her perfume. The scent is something delicate, lingering—like jasmine after rain, like something meant to be remembered. He sits on the couch, his suit immaculate, posture relaxed but precise. The low glow of the lamps catches the sharp cut of his jaw, the composed stillness of his expression. His eyes—dark, unreadable—follow her with quiet certainty. Always watching. She stands before him, wrapped in the softest whisper of lingerie, satin ribbons hugging her curves. A bow sits tied around her waist, its message written in careful script: “I am your present.” A slow smile plays at her lips as she tilts her head, letting the anticipation stretch just a little longer. Then, her voice—low and smooth—breaks the hush. “I told you yesterday I had a present for you.” She watches the way his gaze lingers, not just on her skin but on the meaning behind her words. “Did you like it?” His reply is quiet, measured. No hesitation...
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