Dear readers, welcome to this story.
Before beginning, I wanted to give a short introduction of myself.
Beneath the quiet hum of life's daily rhythm, I find solace in words. They are my sanctuary, my escape. In the pages of a book, I am no longer a quiet observer of the world but a lover of dreams, a wanderer of distant lands and forgotten times. The stories of love, though unreachable in the mundane, bloom in my mind like flowers that never see the light of day.
My heart, reserved and bound by the weight of my own solitude, has learned to love only what is written in ink. A fleeting glance at reality is enough to remind me that love, as the world sees it, is not for me. But in the safe embrace of fiction, I am free to be a hopeless romantic, to dance with the very idea of what love could be, if only for a moment. I never feel sadness — because, you see, no person in this world holds the power to make my smile fade. Not in the way a story, a song, or a character can. It's the fictional men who truly have my heart. Their flaws, their perfect imperfections, are the only things that make me ache in the way I never knew was possible.
As for music — it's as complicated as I am. It flows in waves, from the timeless charm of old classics to the pulse of new beats, from soulful English ballads to foreign melodies that stir something deep within. The songs I choose are reflections of my mood, my soul's quiet plea for understanding, whether it's the soft hum of a piano in a jazz tune, the longing strings of a classical piece, or the edgy rebellion of a modern hit. There's no one genre, no one language that can hold me. Music is a mirror to my changing heart.
Family is the thread that binds me, their laughter a melody to which my soul dances. In their presence, I am whole, anchored in the warmth of their love and their understanding. But when the day fades and I find myself alone, my thoughts wander to the endless worlds that lie just beyond the reach of my fingertips, waiting to be written, waiting to be lived.
This is where I live. Not in the fleeting moments of love, but in the eternal glow of fiction. Not in the songs the world sings, but in the ones that only a few will ever hear. And while I may never succumb to real-world sorrow, I know the ache of a love that only exists in the spaces between pages and notes.
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