Amelie
I sat alone in the quiet of my dimly lit bedroom, the soft glow of a solitary lamp casting long shadows on the walls. The room was filled with the scent of fading memories, memories of him—my past lover.
For weeks, I had been grappling with an internal turmoil, torn between the echoes of our shared moments and the uncertainty of the path ahead. His face, the curve of his smile, the warmth of his embrace—they all crusaded through the corridors of my mind, refusing to leave.
Outside, the soft desert breeze whispered through the openings of my window, the cold breeze reminding me of the warmth I felt whenever I was with him. My fingers traced the rim of my empty teacup, lost in thought, searching for answers in the swirls of the dark liquid that had grown cold.
