Dear diary,
This morning, I woke up not knowing that today I would fall in love.Kelvin jumped onto the bed and greeted me with enthusiastic licks to the face. I laughed and played with him for a while, until he leapt back down and padded toward the door — his subtle reminder that it was time for his walk.Still groggy, I dragged myself into the shower. I undressed, ready to wash off the night, only to find the water ice cold. So there I stood, completely naked, goosebumps rising on my skin, as Kelvin stared at me with his leashless impatience. We were both waiting for something warm to begin.Eventually, the water heated. I stepped in quickly, let it run over me, brushed my teeth, and toweled off with a warm embrace of cotton. I tossed the towel aside, pulled on my underwear, got dressed, and clipped the leash to Kelvin’s collar.We stepped outside into the sunlit morning, and that’s when it happened.There, across the street, crouching down to pet his dog, was a vision. A sun-kissed Adonis, shirtless, golden hair glinting in the light, with piercing blue eyes. It felt like time slowed. He looked up at me, smiled wide, and said, “What a cute boy.”I froze. My cheeks burned. I nervously touched my hair and managed a shy “Thank you.”
He grinned, stood up, and added with a laugh, “I meant your dog.”
I wanted the ground to swallow me. But he laughed — a warm, generous laugh — and I couldn’t help but laugh too.His name was Henry. His dog, Phillip. Our pups immediately took to one another, sniffing and circling, already breaking the ice for us. He invited me to sit with him on a bench nearby.We talked. He works in advertising, something about a new campaign for a running shoe brand — that’s why he was out running with Phillip. I complimented the shoes, and maybe also how incredibly fit he looked in them.Then, suddenly, he brought us back to that moment — the “cute boy” mix-up. He looked at me and said, “You know, when I said that about Kelvin… I have to admit, you’re not so bad yourself, cute boy.”My heart did somersaults. I smiled, whispered another “thank you,” and that’s when I saw him lean in.
Closer.
And closer.His lips touched mine — soft, warm, searching. I let myself melt into it. Our mouths opened gently. He tasted sweet, like something you didn’t know you’d missed. Time disappeared for a moment, until Phillip — the traitor — decided to bolt down the street.Henry jumped up, laughing and cursing under his breath, chasing after him. I knew then that he wouldn't make it back.I sat alone on the bench with Kelvin, heart racing, lips tingling, wondering how something so brief could feel so real.And now, back home, I’m left with questions.Was it love?
Does love only count if it becomes something? Or can it live in a moment — fleeting and pure — like a summer breeze brushing your skin?I think… I choose to believe in love, no matter how long it stays.Even if it vanishes with the wag of a dog’s tail.

Dear diary,
The weekend is finally here, and with it, the perfect excuse to escape to the beach. I arrived early, while the sand was still cool and the shore was mostly empty — quiet, peaceful, almost mine alone.The water looked beautiful but felt icy, so I decided to skip the swim and pulled out my book instead. I was deep into it, turning page after page, when suddenly — bam — I felt a sharp thud on the side of my head. Everything went black for a second.When my vision returned, my book was on the ground... and so was a soccer ball.Footsteps approached, soft but quick in the sand. I looked up, dazed, and saw him — like something out of a dream. Sun-kissed skin, long golden hair tousled by the breeze, a playful, apologetic smile. His body glistened in the sunlight like a real-life Greek god. He bent down to pick up the ball, apologizing over and over, clearly embarrassed.I could barely concentrate on his words. My head was spinning — partly from the hit, but mostly from him.Eventually, I found my voice. “It’s okay,” I said, brushing it off, “really, I’m fine.”
Apparently, that was enough of an invitation, because he sat right down next to me.His name was Jake — a surfer, of course — and apparently also an agriculture student. He told me he and his friends come to the beach every weekend to play and hang out. He invited me to join next time. I laughed and told him I’m not exactly “team sports” material.He gave me a quick look up and down, then smirked.
“You look pretty fit to me.”I blushed instantly and said something dumb like, “Not even close to your level.”
He smiled, his own cheeks flushing, and said, “Wanna touch my abs? I work hard for them.”I laughed nervously, but before I could respond, he gently took my hand and placed it on his stomach.
His skin was warm from the sun, and his abs… well, they were everything he promised.I must’ve turned bright red, because he leaned in and whispered, “You’re cute when you blush.”And then — just like in a movie — his face came closer, our lips met, and we kissed.
The wind danced around us, waves crashing nearby, and for a brief, perfect moment, nothing else existed.But the spell broke as quickly as it was cast. His friends were calling for him. Jake stood up, ball in hand, but not before turning back to me with a cheeky grin.
“Next week? Same place?”I nodded, trying to play it cool, and called out, “YES!”He jogged away, full of life, leaving me there with sand in my hair and a smile I couldn’t wipe off my face.The walk home felt light, like floating. There’s something beautiful about falling for someone in a fleeting moment — no plans, no promises, just possibility.
A summer fling, maybe.
But sometimes, a little spark is all you need.

Dear diary,
I didn’t plan on falling in love at the gym today — but then again, who ever really plans these things?It started off like any regular workout. I was mid-set, earbuds in, focused on my form, when I noticed someone across the room — him. He was sitting at the chest press machine, sculpted arms flexing with each push, golden skin glistening lightly with sweat. Then, suddenly, he looked up… and smiled at me.I must have blushed instantly. I felt it — that rush of warmth to my cheeks, that flutter deep in my chest.A few sets later, I noticed him lying back for another round, but this time his movements slowed. By the third rep, I could tell he was struggling. Without thinking, I dropped my weights and rushed over. My hands reached his bar just in time, and he exhaled with a laugh of relief."Thanks," he said, still catching his breath. "You saved my life."He smiled again — wide, bright, and easy.
"I'm Kenny," he said.
I smiled back. "I'm Elio."We started chatting — first about workouts, routines, fitness goals — but before long, the conversation took a different turn. A more personal, teasing, flirty one.He complimented my frame, called it "elegantly lean." I laughed and returned the favor, complimenting his clearly well-earned physique. That made him blush — just a little.Then, just like that, he turned around and began walking toward the locker room. I stood there, confused for a moment, until he turned back over his shoulder with the slyest grin… like he was inviting me without saying a word.I took a breath, grabbed my towel and bottle, and followed.When I entered the locker room, he was already there — standing by the lockers, wrapped in a towel, body still warm and damp from the workout.
"I thought you weren’t coming," he said, a hint of mischief in his voice.
I shrugged, nervous. "I wasn’t sure… I’m terrible at reading signals."Then, still smiling, he let the towel drop to the floor.
"Is this signal clear enough?"My face went crimson. I laughed nervously, heart pounding.
"Signal received," I said.I started undressing as he turned toward the showers, walking slowly, deliberately. He stepped into the first stall and turned on the water. I took the one across from him, but he made no effort to hide — giving me a little show, playful and bold.A moment later, he reached out a hand. No words. Just a quiet invitation.I stepped in, the steam rising around us. The water was hot, but not as hot as my skin. I was shaking slightly — from nerves, from excitement, from the intensity of it all.He pulled me gently into him, cupped my face, and kissed me. His lips were warm, soft but urgent. The kiss deepened. His tongue slid against mine, slow and sure, mixing with the water cascading between us.For a few minutes, there was only the heat. His body against mine, the sound of water, the pounding in my chest.Then, suddenly — voices. Loud ones. The door swung open, and we heard the unmistakable chatter of a group of men entering the locker room.Like guilty schoolboys, we jumped apart, grabbing towels and laughing quietly. We dried off as quickly as possible, throwing on our clothes and exchanging glances that said this isn’t over.As we stepped outside, the air felt cool and open. He turned to me with a grin.
"Wanna continue our workout somewhere quieter?"I smiled.
"Lead the way."

Dear diary,
My heart is still racing from what happened tonight. I don't think I’ll ever forget it.It all started when I left a party in one of the shadier parts of town. The night had been wild — drinks, dancing, laughter with friends — the kind of chaos that makes you feel young and untouchable. But by 2 a.m., the music had started to fade and I knew it was time to go.I put on my headphones and began the long walk home. The streets were nearly deserted, dimly lit, cloaked in a silence that made every step echo louder than it should.Then it happened — that feeling. A chill down my spine, like something wasn’t right. Even through the music, I heard it: heavy, fast footsteps pounding behind me. Getting closer.Panic surged. I started running.I glanced back — someone was chasing me. No doubt.My breath quickened as I darted down a side alley, hoping to lose him. The alley was narrow and shadowy, and as I leaned against the wall, I tried to slow my breathing. For a moment, I thought I was safe.But then he appeared.Tall. Broad shoulders. Smooth, deep-toned skin that seemed to shimmer under the streetlight. His hair was dark blonde and curly, falling slightly over eyes that were sharp, intense, and locked on me.He didn’t stop walking until he was right in front of me. I could feel his breath, hear his heartbeat — or maybe it was mine.His face was unreadable, but something in his expression made my body tense with both fear and… something else.Then he spoke, his voice low and heavy with a Spanish accent.
“You shouldn’t have run away, little man,” he said.I froze.
“I… I’m sorry,” I whispered, barely able to breathe.He reached into his pocket — and in that moment, I truly thought it was the end of me.But what he pulled out wasn’t a weapon. It was my wallet.“You dropped it in the club,” he said, holding it out. “I tried to call after you, but you ran.”The realization hit me like a wave of heat and shame. My entire face turned red. He must’ve noticed, because a soft laugh escaped him.
“You’re cute when you blush,” he said with a smirk.I smiled nervously and took the wallet from his hand.
“Thank you. And… I’m really sorry,” I stammered.The smile faded. He stepped in closer again, his body pressing me lightly against the alley wall. His voice dropped to a low growl.
“Then you need to make it up to me.”Before I could say anything, he kissed me — hard, hungry, and full of something I couldn't quite name. My fear melted into fire, and I let myself fall into it. Into him.We were completely alone. The world outside didn't exist. The kiss deepened, and somewhere between his lips and the warmth of his skin, I began unbuttoning his shirt. He took the hint.What followed was messy, passionate, and unlike anything I’d ever experienced. A collision of adrenaline and desire, of mistaken assumptions and unexpected chemistry.Afterwards, as we caught our breath, he smiled again — that same smirk from before. He handed me his phone number and said his name was Pablo.He’s in town just for a few days. But he said he wants to see me again.I don’t know where this is going.
But diary, my heart is still pounding.
And I think I want more.

Dear diary,
This week felt like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from.
After that unforgettable night in the alley with Pablo — something shifted. What began as tension and adrenaline bloomed into warmth, laughter, and something dangerously close to love.We spent nearly every day together.
In the mornings, we’d walk along the shoreline, bare feet in the cool sand, letting the waves wash over our toes. He always brought two coffees — mine exactly how I like it — and we’d sit on a bench watching the city slowly wake up. He liked to trace circles on my leg with his thumb as we talked. He was so present. So there.One morning, after a night of teasing touches and barely-contained tension, I woke up to feel his hand sliding slowly across my stomach.
He didn’t say a word — just kissed the back of my neck and let his body press into mine, hard and ready.The way he moved behind me was unhurried, deliberate — his breath against my ear, one hand guiding my hips, the other gripping my chest. I could barely breathe from the pleasure.
The steam from the shower was still rising as we stumbled in together, him pinning me gently against the tile, kissing me like I was oxygen.
It was rougher that morning. Hungrier.
Like we both knew time was slipping through our fingers and we wanted to leave marks where memories might fade.One afternoon we had a picnic in the park.
Pablo made sandwiches. He was surprisingly terrible at them, but I didn’t care. We laid out on the grass, letting the sun warm our skin while our laughter echoed between the trees. I remember his head resting in my lap, eyes closed, completely at peace. I traced my fingers through his curls and wondered how it could feel so natural, so soon.And then there were the nights.
God, the nights.Some were quiet — curled up on the couch, a bottle of wine between us, something playing on the TV that we barely watched. He’d pull me close, my head resting on his chest, his fingers sliding through my hair while the soft glow of the screen danced across our skin.And some nights...
Some nights were fire.After a fun night out we undressed and went drunk into the bathroom , steam clinging to the air. I had just stepped in when he followed, pressing his body to mine under the spray.
Water ran down our skin, but all I felt was him — the heat of his mouth on my neck, his hands on my hips, the weight of his chest against my back.
He whispered things in Spanish I barely understood, but didn’t need to.
His touch said everything.
It was slow. Intense. Like we had all the time in the world.
And for a moment, we did.Another night, in bed, he kissed me like he was trying to memorize the shape of my mouth.
There was no rush — just eyes locked, breath shared, hands exploring like they’d never get the chance again.
We made love like it was the first time, and the last.
He said my name over and over again like a prayer, and I clung to him like I was afraid of the morning.Afterward, we laid tangled in each other, barely speaking, only touching — foreheads pressed, fingers tracing shoulders, hearts still racing.
I think that was the moment I realized I was falling for him.
Not just the body.
The soul.But the night before he left —
That was something else.We barely made it to the bedroom. Clothes trailed behind us on the floor like petals. He pushed me back onto the bed and crawled over me with that look in his eyes — pure fire, pure want.He kissed every inch of me, slowly, like tasting the last bite of something sweet.
His mouth explored me without hesitation, and I returned the favor. We moved together like we’d done it a hundred times — like we were learning and remembering all at once.It was passionate. Raw. Beautiful.
We whispered things neither of us will ever repeat. We didn’t sleep much.
And I didn’t want to.He packed quietly in the morning. I helped fold his shirts, pretending like it wasn’t breaking me.
At the airport, we stood a little too long in each other’s arms.
He kissed me one last time, slowly, deeply — as if to say, remember this.
Then he whispered, “I’ll see you again, mi amor.”
And just like that, he was gone.Now I’m back in my room. The sheets still smell like him. My skin remembers every touch.
And my heart — My heart is aching.But also…
hopeful.Because sometimes, even a short chapter can leave a mark that lasts forever.
And I think Pablo's name is written on mine.

Dear diary,
It was one of those clear winter days — sunny, cold, nothing unusual.
I had just finished some shopping and was on my way home when the weather suddenly flipped. Dark clouds rolled in, and heavy rain started pouring out of nowhere. My paper bag immediately began to soften in my hands, and I panicked, trying to find shelter before everything I bought spilled onto the street.

I spotted a bus stop and ran toward it. It was already crowded, people squeezing themselves in, everyone avoiding the rain. I was about to give up when a large, steady hand appeared in front of me, motioning for me to come closer.

The hand belonged to a man who looked like he walked out of a movie —
salt-and-pepper hair, scruff, strong jaw, warm eyes.
Something about him felt calm and sure.
He pulled me toward him to give me space under the small roof, and as more people pushed in, I found myself pressed against his chest.

I looked up to apologize, and he gave me this quiet smile that made everything feel a bit warmer. Then someone shoved from behind, and suddenly I was fully against him, practically held in his arms. I felt my face heat up, but he didn’t seem bothered. He leaned slightly toward my ear and whispered:

“Richard.”

His voice was deep and warm, and for a moment the whole crowd disappeared.

I told him my name, and we just stood there like that — close, almost too close — listening to the rain hammering down around us. Something shifted in that moment. His hand slid gently to my waist, and before I could think, he leaned in and kissed me.

It was slow at first, then deeper.
Soft lips, warm breath, rain all around us.
I didn’t care who was watching.

Only when the rain finally stopped and the crowd thinned did we pull away. I bent to grab my bag, and when I looked up, he was already walking away — until he turned back, met my eyes, and motioned for me to follow.

I don’t know why, but I did.

His apartment was warm, almost too warm after the cold outside.
He took off his jacket, then lifted his shirt over his head, revealing a strong, mature body. I followed his lead, taking off my own layers until we were standing there in nothing but our underwear, the heat making our skin glow.

Richard stepped toward me slowly, like he knew exactly what he wanted.
He cupped the back of my neck and kissed me again — harder this time, deeper.
Our bodies pressed together, warm and tense, and something inside me just gave in.

Clothes dropped to the floor quickly after that.
He pushed me gently toward the bed, guiding me down with a firm hand on my hip. When I lay back, he climbed over me, his weight settling onto mine in a way that felt safe and intense at the same time.

We kissed for a long moment before things naturally went further.
Richard took the lead — steady, confident, knowing exactly how to move.
Our bodies fit together easily, and the mix of heat, sweat, and his touch made everything blur.
It was passionate, physical, unfiltered — exactly what I needed.

When we finally collapsed together, our skin was warm and damp, the air thick with the smell of winter rain and heat. We stayed like that for a while, catching our breath.

Later, we said goodbye the way strangers who shared something intense do — quietly, without promises, just a small smile before parting ways.

It was a winter fling.
Short, spontaneous, and exactly right for that moment.

And honestly?
It was pretty perfect.

Dear diary,
This trip has been… wild.
I’m writing this from the airplane on my way to Peru, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I had to get this down — before it fades, before the dream slips away.After finishing a job in London, I spontaneously booked a train to Paris. Just a quick adventure, I told myself. Nothing big.
I took my seat, opened my book, and tried to relax — and then I saw him.Brown hair, pale skin, soft features like he belonged in a painting.
He was walking down the aisle of the train, searching for his seat. I watched, heart racing, silently begging the universe to put him in my booth.And then… it did.He sat right in front of me.We exchanged polite introductions.
His name was Olivier, said with that impossibly thick and charming French accent. He worked in finance, on his way to visit his parents in the countryside for the weekend.There was something magnetic between us.
We kept talking, slowly, shyly. Our fingers brushed occasionally across the table. Tiny sparks. But neither of us dared to cross that invisible line.As the ride neared its end, we both ordered coffee and spoke more freely. Laughed more. Got bolder.
When his stop arrived, he handed me his business card and said, “Call me, if you’d like.”
I blushed, nodded, and said I would.Then he was gone.And I stayed, clutching the card like a fragile lifeline — until the train jolted suddenly, sending hot coffee flying across the table.The card was ruined.
His name blurred. His number gone.
Just like that, my brief chance with Olivier disappeared into the blur of Paris.I spent the next hours wandering the streets, hoping — foolishly — that fate would be on my side.
Nothing. The sun began to set. My feet ached. I finally sat down on a bench, trying not to cry.Then I heard my name.I looked up — and there he was.
Olivier. Like a dream walking toward me. That same calm beauty, that quiet confidence. He didn’t say anything. I stood up, stammering apologies, trying to explain the card, the coffee—He raised a finger to my lips.
“Shh,” he whispered.
Then he kissed me. Deeply. Passionately. Right there, in the heart of Paris.
And I melted into him.That night at his apartment was… something else.He threw me gently onto the bed, stripping off his clothes like he owned the moment. Then, standing above me, he looked at me like I was art — something to admire.
“Take yours off,” he said.I obeyed.He crawled over me slowly, like a predator playing with anticipation, lips brushing my skin, mouth trailing down my neck.
He lifted my legs and pressed against me, and I could feel every inch of his hunger.
It was intense. Tender. Raw.
We made love for hours, until my body gave in to exhaustion.The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee — and the sight of him standing above the bed, shirtless, in soft grey boxer briefs, holding a mug and smirking.
“Wake up, lazy boy,” he said with that accent that could melt stone.We spent the day together, strolling through quiet alleyways, sipping espresso in hidden cafés, weaving through open-air markets, tasting cheese and fresh fruit like locals.
It was the kind of Paris I’d never known — not the tourist version, but the romantic, lived-in one.
The one you see when you're falling in love.But the clock doesn’t stop.
And time always catches up with magic.By the end of the day, we knew — this was it.
One last kiss. Long. Lingering. Final.
He walked away to return to his charming, beautiful life.And this time… I saved his number.Olivier.
My French lover.
My Paris chapter.
And a memory I’ll carry all the way to Peru.

Dear diary,
Peru has taken my breath away — and not just because of the altitude.After a night in a small hotel in Cusco, I set off for the famous trail to Machu Picchu. The air was crisp, the mountains impossibly grand, and every step felt like walking through centuries of history. I stopped now and then to sketch the jagged ridges and ancient stone, losing myself in the stillness.By late afternoon, I decided it was time to head back. Maybe I was too tired, maybe I lost focus — but in an instant, my foot slipped. A bolt of pain shot up my ankle, and I felt myself teeter dangerously close to the cliff’s edge… when a strong hand caught me and pulled me into a solid chest.He was tall, broad-shouldered, with smooth bronze skin glistening in the sun and dark, hypnotic eyes. He steadied me, then guided me to a nearby rock. Without much ceremony, he took my leg in his hands and examined it carefully.In a deep Peruvian accent, he said, “Just a light sprain. You’ll be fine.” He introduced himself as Mateo, a local guide. His group had finished the tour, and he was heading back alone to search for a client’s lost earbud.“I guess I was lucky you were here,” I said.
He smiled. “It’s my pleasure to save the life of such a cute little chulo.”The heat rose in my cheeks — and he saw it.
Before I could react, he leaned in and kissed me, hard, urgent, claiming my lips like a mountain lion pouncing on prey. I melted instantly, kissing him back until the sound of an approaching tour group made us stop.Without a word, he lifted me into his arms and carried me down the trail. On the bus back to town, I sat beside him, listening to his deep voice explain the history of the mountains to his group. That voice… I could have listened forever.When we arrived, he said goodbye to his clients, then turned to me with a hunger in his eyes. He slid my arm around his neck and guided me through the winding streets to his small apartment in the city center — a modest space with a bed, a wooden table, and little else.He sat me on the bed, removed my shoes, and began undressing me without hesitation. I was too stunned to protest — and, truthfully, I didn’t want to. Then, without a word, he left the room, taking my clothes with him.Moments later, he returned and lifted me in his arms, carrying me into the bathroom. A steaming bathtub waited, fragrant with herbs.
“Healing water,” he said softly.Lowering me in, he began to massage my ankle, the warmth easing away the pain. My body relaxed, my guard dropped — and then he began undressing himself.Standing naked before me, he looked like a figure carved from the mountains themselves — powerful, commanding, yet calm. He stepped into the tub and pulled me back against his chest. The heat of him seeped into me. His hands explored with slow certainty, and soon our bodies moved together in the water, a rhythm as natural as the river outside.He turned me to face him. I climbed onto him, kissing him deeply as I lowered myself down, the water splashing wildly around us. Every movement, every sound, felt amplified in that steamy cocoon. And when it was over, we dried off and collapsed into his bed, skin against skin, drifting into the kind of deep, dreamless sleep you can only find in the arms of someone who feels like home.In the morning, Nico took me on a private tour of the city — the markets, the plazas, the hidden corners he loved most. He told me about his family, his life here, and I found myself imagining what it would be like to stay.But my time in Peru was over. Brazil was calling. Saying goodbye to my gentle giant was harder than I expected. We promised to stay in touch, and I invited him to visit me someday.As the bus to the airport pulled away, I thought about the version of my life where I stayed in Peru — where love and mountains and healing water were my everyday.For now, it’s just a dream.
But it’s one I’ll carry with me.

Dear diary,
Arriving in Rio de Janeiro, the first thing I wanted — no, needed — to do was to feel the sand between my toes and the ocean breeze on my skin. The city was alive, pulsing with heat and rhythm, and the beach was like a living postcard — golden sand, turquoise waves, and bodies basking under the relentless sun.I grabbed a cold drink to go and strolled along the boardwalk, letting the music of the city wash over me. That’s when I saw him.Sitting on a rock like some wild, untamed creature was a Brazilian god — his hair curly and sun-bleached, his chest lightly covered with dark hair, his entire presence radiating raw masculinity. His skin glistened with salt and sweat, muscles perfectly defined.He locked eyes with me and smiled — a mischievous, knowing smile that sent a thrill through my entire body.
Before I could react, he stood up, sprinted toward the sea, and dove in with effortless grace.I watched, mesmerized, as he swam further and further out. The sun hit the water just right, making his body shimmer like molten gold. Then, suddenly, he waved at me — frantic, desperate. He looked like he was drowning.Without thinking, I dropped my drink and ran into the surf, my heart pounding. I swam as fast as I could, panic surging through me. When I finally reached him, breathless and shaking, he grinned — that same mischievous smile.It was all an act.​“I’m Nico,” he said, his thick Brazilian accent curling around the syllables like a caress.
“I just wanted to be alone with you… and this was the only way I could think of.”I was furious — ready to turn back — but before I could, he pounced, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me under the water. For a heartbeat, there was silence, the world muted beneath the waves. His face was so close to mine, his eyes burning with wild energy.And then he kissed me.
Underwater.It was raw, magical, like nothing I had ever felt before. The ocean around us seemed to hum with electricity.​When we surfaced, gasping, he laughed and challenged me to a race back to shore. We stumbled onto the sand, collapsing side by side, waves crashing over our tangled bodies. The sun kissed our damp skin as we lay there, laughing, talking, and touching.One kiss became two.Two became a long, heated make-out session, our lips salty from the sea, our hands exploring as the world disappeared around us.As the evening set in, Nico led me back to his apartment — a modest place tucked away in a busy neighborhood.​The moment the door closed, his mouth was on mine again. He stripped me down and pulled me into the shower with him. The water ran hot over us, mixing with leftover sand and mud as our bodies slid together in a slick, intoxicating rhythm.​He turned me around, his breath heavy against my neck. I was trembling, anticipating, needing.
When he finally entered me, his size and force stole my breath — pain flashing for a moment, only to melt into pure, dizzying pleasure.​We moved together beneath the spray, my back against the cool tile, his powerful body claiming mine completely. It was wild, urgent, animalistic.When we were spent, we tumbled out of the shower, only to continue in his bed… and later, insatiable, on the kitchen counter, our passion echoing into the night.The next day, Nico took me on a private tour of Rio.The bustling markets, the hidden alleyways, the breathtaking views — we couldn’t stop touching, stealing kisses in every corner of the city. People stared, but we didn’t care.Our connection was magnetic, primal.It felt like we’d been pulled together by some force stronger than reason.But like all wild dreams, it had to end.That evening, I boarded my flight, watching the lights of Rio fade beneath me.Nico will always be my wild Brazilian lover, the embodiment of passion, chaos, and freedom —
a memory that will burn in my veins long after the sun has set on Rio.

Dear diary,
After a long flight and a blissful night of deep sleep, I woke up in beautiful Thailand.
I’d dreamed of coming here for so long, and finally, my work brought me to this vibrant, electric country — a place of colors, scents, and stories waiting to be told.My first day was a whirlwind of sights and sensations.I floated past colorful stalls at the floating market, where the air was thick with the smell of spices and grilled street food. I wandered through the Monkey Temple, escorted by a guard with a slingshot, amused and slightly terrified by the chaos of it all. As the sun set, I found myself at a buzzing night market, haggling for souvenirs and tasting sweet, sticky treats.​By evening, I slipped into the warm waters of my hotel’s rooftop infinity pool, gazing out at the glowing skyline of Bangkok. The city seemed endless, like a sea of light and possibility. I should have been exhausted… but instead, I felt alive, restless, craving more.I’d heard whispers of a legendary club: DJ Station.Curiosity sparked, I made my way through the intoxicating maze of the Patpong night market, neon lights flashing, music thumping faintly in the distance. The closer I got, the louder the rhythm became, until I was swallowed by Bangkok’s nightlife — a chaotic, vibrant pulse.​Inside the club, I was overwhelmed. Bodies danced, lights flashed, and the air was electric with energy and sweat. I clutched my two drink tickets like lifelines and pushed my way to the bar, where a bartender handed me a colorful, fruity drink. I thanked her in my clumsy Thai: khòp khun ka, earning a warm smile.​Drink in hand, I turned toward the main stage — and that’s when I saw him.He was unlike anyone else in the room: a slender, delicate figure, perched casually on the edge of the bar like he owned the place. A baseball cap shadowed his eyes, giving him an air of mystery. When he noticed me, his lips curved into a soft, knowing smile.My breath caught.​He hopped down, swaying gently to the music, then gestured for me to join him.
I hesitated for only a moment before the beat took hold of me, pulling me toward him. We danced — our bodies finding a rhythm that felt effortless, natural, intoxicating.Then, as if the night wasn’t magical enough, the music shifted and a drag show exploded onto the stage. The room roared with laughter and applause. We cheered, clapped, and let ourselves get lost in the pure joy of it all.​Somewhere between the beats, the laughter, and the heat, I felt an urge rising in me — bold, unexpected.Without thinking, I leaned in and kissed him.To my surprise, he kissed me back, soft and sweet, as if we’d been doing this forever.
We made out right there on the dance floor, under flashing lights, surrounded by strangers — and yet, in that moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us.​When the night began to wind down, we walked back to my hotel, our fingers brushing, our laughter soft in the warm night air. Along the way, I learned more about him. His name was Amree, which he told me means “my command” in Thai.​The name felt fitting — though, ironically, tonight I would be the one taking command.Inside my room, the air between us shifted. Amree lay back on the bed, his smooth, slender body stretched out like a work of art, his dark eyes watching me with quiet anticipation.
I felt something stir inside me — a side of myself I hadn’t fully explored before. Confidence. Power. Desire.​I climbed over him and kissed him deeply.
His skin was soft under my hands, his breath quickening as he surrendered completely.
I turned him gently, taking the lead, letting the buzz of alcohol and the energy of the city flow through me.When I entered him, it was seamless, natural — our bodies falling into a rhythm that was both passionate and rough, yet loving and tender. The room seemed to spin around us, our breaths mingling, our movements growing urgent and wild.In that moment, I felt a rush of excitement and pride — for trying something new, for taking control, for letting go.​Afterward, we lay tangled together, the city buzzing just outside the window.
Eventually, Amree slipped away into the night, leaving me with the echo of his touch.I took a hot, steamy shower, washing away the sweat and heat, then collapsed into bed, utterly spent yet blissfully content.​When I woke the next morning, sunlight streamed through the curtains. My body was sore, my heart full, my mind already spinning with the adventures still to come.Thailand had given me my first unforgettable night…
and I couldn’t wait to see what other stories it had in store.

Dear diary,
After a short flight from Bangkok, I landed in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam — a city that felt like stepping into another world.The streets were alive with the constant buzz of scooters, the smell of sizzling street food, and a rhythm that pulsed through every corner.​I started my day with a traditional Vietnamese breakfast: strong coffee dripping slowly through a metal filter, paired with a warm, crunchy bánh mì sandwich. With my notebook in hand, ready to collect impressions for the article I was writing, I set out to explore the city.My first stop was Ben Thanh Market, a maze of colorful stalls overflowing with fragrant spices, silk scarves, and exotic fruits I couldn’t even name. The air was thick with the mingled scents of grilled seafood and sweet coconut desserts.From there, I wandered to the Notre-Dame Cathedral Basilica, its French colonial architecture standing as a proud reminder of the city’s past, before stopping at the Central Post Office, where locals and tourists alike marveled at the grand hall beneath its arched ceiling.As the day went on, I immersed myself in the city’s contrasts — modern skyscrapers rising above ancient temples, and serene parks nestled between chaotic streets. By the time I reached the War Remnants Museum, the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the bustling city.As evening approached, I realized I had been walking for hours, completely caught up in the sights, sounds, and people. Slowly, the streets began to change.Market stalls folded up, vendors packed away their goods, and families retreated inside their homes.
The once-lively streets grew quiet, and the lights dimmed one by one.​I decided it was time to head back to my hotel — only to discover, with a sinking heart, that my phone battery was dead. My portable charger was back in my room, and I had no directions, no map, no way to call for a ride.​I sat down on the pavement, tired and disoriented, trying to calm the rising panic in my chest. Just when I felt completely alone, a hand appeared in front of me, strong and steady.I looked up — and saw him.A tall, muscular man with bronzed skin, his body effortlessly powerful, like someone carved from warm stone. His dark eyes met mine, full of quiet confidence and concern.He helped me to my feet and, in perfect English, introduced himself: “Minh.”I hurriedly explained how I had gotten lost, my words tumbling over each other. Minh listened patiently, then offered to give me a ride back to my hotel.
I agreed — but insisted on buying him dinner to thank him.His face lit up with a wide smile. “Deal.”We hopped on his motorbike, the cool night air rushing past me as the city lights blurred around us. Minh took me to a small local restaurant tucked away on a quiet side street.He ordered for us — and every dish was extraordinary.We shared crispy Vietnamese vegetable pancakes, fragrant with fresh herbs, and steaming bowls of pho, the broth so rich and comforting it felt like a hug.But as amazing as the food was, Minh himself was even more captivating.
He was charming, witty, and sharply intelligent, with a laugh so infectious that I couldn’t stop smiling. Conversation flowed easily, our chemistry undeniable. It felt like one of the best dates I’d had in a long, long time — effortless and electric.After dinner, we strolled through the city, hand brushing against hand, until we reached the entrance of my hotel. Minh paused, looked into my eyes, and asked softly:
“May I kiss you?”Like a perfect gentleman, he waited for my answer.
I didn’t wait a second — I kissed him passionately.The kiss ignited something between us. I invited him upstairs, and the moment the elevator doors closed, the energy shifted. Minh lifted me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his strong frame as he pressed me against the mirrored wall.We kissed hungrily, our bodies grinding together as the elevator rose.When the doors opened, he carried me straight to my room without breaking the kiss, laying me down on the bed and hovering over me, his breath hot against my skin.We kissed and teased each other until our clothes were gone, scattered across the floor.That night, Minh took complete control — and I surrendered to him entirely.
After my experience in Thailand, where I had been the one in charge, it felt thrilling to be submissive again, to give myself over to his strength and desire.​He moved with precision and hunger, his body powerful and unrelenting.
Each thrust was deep, purposeful, hitting every spot with perfect rhythm. I clung to him, moaning his name, lost in the intensity of it all.​It was rough, passionate, and breathtakingly intimate — a dance of dominance and surrender that left me shaking with pleasure.When it was finally over, he collapsed on top of me, his body heavy and warm.
Almost instantly, he fell asleep, his steady breathing mingling with mine.And there I lay, pinned beneath his weight, feeling safe, desired, and utterly at peace.
Exactly what I had needed that night.​By morning, the city outside had woken up, bustling and bright once again.
But inside that room, time stood still — the memory of Minh’s strength and tenderness lingering like the scent of incense in the air.​Vietnam had given me a night I would never forget.
And Minh…
He had left a mark on my body and my heart, one I wasn’t ready to let go of.

Dear diary,
India welcomed me with a wave of sensations that nearly overwhelmed me.
The colors, the smells, the noise — everything was intoxicating, wild yet strangely soothing. There was a rhythm to the chaos here, like the city itself was breathing.​My first day was filled with wonder. I stood in awe before the Taj Mahal, its white marble glowing softly in the warm sunlight. Later, I wandered through narrow streets filled with hidden temples and street vendors, then slipped into a meditation session that left me strangely restless instead of calm.
As dusk began to fall, I found myself in the local spice market, where towers of saffron, cumin, and turmeric surrounded me like a painter’s palette. The air was thick with spices, earthy and sweet.And that’s when I saw him.​Between two massive burlap sacks of spices stood a beautiful man. His presence seemed to still the world around him. For the briefest moment, our eyes met, and I could have sworn he smiled at me — a soft, knowing smile.Caught off guard, I looked away shyly. When I gathered the courage to look back, he was gone.
No trace.It was as if he had dissolved into the air.I searched the market frantically, weaving through crowds, hoping for another glimpse. But he was nowhere.The rest of the day passed in a haze, my mind trapped in loops of missed opportunity, haunted by the fleeting vision of this stranger’s face.That night, I tried to meditate again on the hostel rooftop, hoping to clear my mind.
But every time I closed my eyes, his image burned brighter.
Sleep didn’t come easily either — I tossed and turned for hours before finally giving up and going outside for some fresh air.​The night was warm and heavy, the air fragrant with incense and distant cooking fires. I wandered up to the rooftop again, and as I pushed open the door, my breath caught.He was there.The man from the market — sitting perfectly still, eyes closed, meditating in the moonlight.
I froze, afraid that if I spoke, he would vanish again. Slowly, quietly, I sat beside him. My heart was pounding so hard I could barely breathe.​Minutes passed in silence. Then, without a word, I felt his hand rest gently on my shoulder.
I opened my eyes to see him smiling at me — serene, almost otherworldly.He rose gracefully and gestured for me to follow.Our hands touched, then intertwined. We walked in silence through the quiet streets, the whole city feeling like it had fallen asleep around us.​Finally, we reached a riverbank, its surface shimmering with moonlight.
For the first time, he spoke, his voice deep and calm:
“My name is Rakesh.”​Without another word, he stepped into the water, slowly wading deeper until it reached his shoulders.
He stood there, eyes closed, arms outstretched, fingertips brushing the water’s surface.
It was hypnotic, like watching a spirit communing with the elements.Drawn by an unexplainable force, I followed. The water was warm, soothing, and when I finally reached him, he opened his eyes, reached for me, and kissed me.​It was long and intense, a kiss that felt like dissolving into a dream. My thoughts vanished.
And then — just as suddenly — he was gone.​I gasped, staring at the empty space where he had been, the ripples spreading around me.
Had I imagined it all?I stumbled back to the shore, dazed, and walked slowly back to my hostel, my heart racing. India felt like it was playing mind games with me, blending dreams and reality until I couldn’t tell them apart.Back in my room, I showered and lay naked on the bed, staring at the ceiling, aching to see him again.
The soft breeze from the ceiling fan caressed my skin as I tried to drift to sleep.​Then I felt it — a warm touch on my thigh.
I opened my eyes to find Rakesh, shirtless, sitting beside me. His eyes burned with hunger, his body glowing faintly in the dim light.​I closed my eyes again, terrified that one wrong move would break the spell.
His hands moved slowly, reverently, over my body, teasing and igniting every nerve.
When his lips met mine, I gasped, my hands clinging to him.​He climbed over me, kissing me deeply, his naked, muscled, slightly hairy body pressing against mine. It felt achingly real — too real to be just a dream.He lifted my legs gently over his shoulders, his eyes locking on mine as he slowly, deliberately entered me.The rhythm he built was slow and precise at first, then grew deeper, faster, more urgent.
Pleasure and emotion mingled until I was lost completely, moaning his name, my body trembling under his control.​The final wave came suddenly — a warm, pulsing sensation deep inside me.
I cried out, my entire body releasing, before collapsing beneath him into blissful darkness.When I woke hours later, the bed was empty.Had he ever been there at all?
My body still ached with the memory of his touch, but my mind questioned everything.Was Rakesh a dream, a spirit, a fantasy brought to life by this magical, mysterious place?
I may never know.But as I left India, one thing was certain:
Whether real or imagined, he had changed me.And part of me will always be waiting to dream of him again.

Dear diary,
When I got the assignment to cover a luxury safari in Africa, I imagined golden plains, wild animals, and starlit nights — but I didn’t realize the story would become so personal.That morning, a safari vehicle pulled up to the front of my lodge. Behind the wheel sat Darius — tall, broad-shouldered, and impossibly composed. His deep ebony skin seemed to glow softly in the morning light, his short-cropped hair neat, his expression calm yet powerful. His voice was low and rich, carrying both warmth and quiet authority as he introduced himself as my guide for the next few days.​There was something about him — that quiet strength, the unshakable confidence — that made the idea of spending nights in the wild under his protection feel both comforting and dangerously exciting.We started our journey across the plains, the horizon stretching endlessly around us. But then Darius made an unexpected stop at another lodge. That’s where I saw him — Leo.My long-time rival. My charming, infuriating counterpart from another magazine.Blond, beautiful, and British — with that sharp wit and effortless charm that seemed to hypnotize every man in the room. Somehow, Leo always got the same assignments as me, and somehow, he always managed to make me feel like the sidekick in my own story.​He climbed into the vehicle, greeted Darius with a sparkling smile, then turned to me and said, “Fancy meeting you here,” before sliding into the front seat beside him.Through the mirror, he caught my gaze and gave me a smirk that said everything: This one’s mine.I sat quietly in the back, telling myself to focus on the story, not on Darius… or Leo.The first day of the safari was breathtaking.We crossed vast savannas painted in gold and rust, watched herds of elephants move like silent giants, and spotted lions lounging in the shade, their tails lazily flicking in the heat.Darius spoke softly but with authority, his deep voice weaving stories about the land — about balance, instinct, and the quiet power of nature.
I could have listened to him for hours.​Leo, on the other hand, was more interested in flirting than learning. He kept tossing Darius compliments — about his physique, his knowledge, his “commanding presence.”
I wanted to roll my eyes, but I bit my tongue and focused on my notes. Still, jealousy burned quietly beneath my skin.​By sunset, we reached the campsite. Darius showed us how to pitch our tents, his movements efficient, practiced. As the fire crackled to life, the air filled with the scent of wood smoke and the distant hum of wildlife. The night sky opened above us, impossibly wide and full of stars.We sat close to the fire while Darius shared tales of his years guiding travelers through the wild — stories that made the land feel alive. Leo listened for a while, then quickly lost interest, scrolling through his phone until he fell asleep, his head resting carelessly on his backpack.​When the fire burned low, Darius turned to me, his voice suddenly quieter, deeper.
“Finally,” he whispered, leaning closer, “some time to ourselves.”My heart skipped a beat.​We talked for a while, our conversation turning unexpectedly personal. He spoke about his family, the solitude of this life, and how the savanna felt like home. I shared bits of my own — the endless flights, the loneliness behind the stories.​At some point, our words stopped mattering.
He brushed his hand against mine, and I felt a rush of warmth.
He stood, offered me his hand, and led me silently into his tent.Inside, the only sound was our breathing.
He hovered above me, his dark eyes reflecting the dim glow from the lantern.
When our lips met, it was slow — deliberate — the kind of kiss that unfolds over a lifetime.He removed his shirt, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him — his powerful frame, his chest smooth and firm, his body sculpted in perfect proportion. His skin was dark and warm under my hands, his scent a mix of sweat, musk, and smoke.​Soon, my own clothes joined his on the ground.
He kissed me again, and I melted into him.When he entered me, the sensation was overwhelming — a sharp gasp of pain, then an intoxicating flood of pleasure.He covered my mouth gently with his hand, reminding me that Leo was still sleeping by the fire just a few meters away.The thought sent a thrill through me.
For once, I was the one who won.​Darius moved slowly at first, then deeper, faster, his rhythm steady and primal. The pain dissolved into waves of pleasure, and I clung to him, matching every thrust with breathless need. When we both reached the edge, we came together — a moment so intense it left me trembling.He collapsed on top of me, his weight grounding me, comforting me.Later, he turned me to my side, wrapped his arms around me, and held me until sleep took us both.By morning, Leo’s face told me everything.
He watched us step out of the tent, his jaw tight, his expression forced.He didn’t say a word, just muttered something about having enough material for his article and left early.That left me and Darius alone — just the two of us, the wilderness, and the sound of the wind over the plains.The next day was everything I had hoped for — long drives through untamed land, quiet moments beneath acacia trees, laughter shared between silences.And that night, under the open African sky, we found each other again — slow, tender, and wordless.When the trip ended, and the time came to say goodbye, Darius pulled me close and whispered,
“Some stories stay with you forever.”He was right.
This one will.

Dear diary,
After my work trip in Africa and that intense time with Darius, I had a free weekend and decided to fly to Berlin.
The plan was simple: meet Pablo, spend time together, see if what we once had could come back.

I landed, walked through the city a bit, and then headed to the café where we agreed to meet.
Pablo looked exactly the same — tall, handsome, bright eyes, that messy dirty-blonde hair I always loved. For a moment I felt this rush of hope.

We sat, talked about work and life, and I flirted without even trying.
Then he dropped the bomb:
he got married.

Married.
To someone he met after moving to Germany.

I froze. I smiled. I congratulated him.
But inside everything just collapsed.

We said goodbye as friends, but I walked back to my hotel feeling stupid, heartbroken, and angry at myself for expecting anything different.
I slept for an hour, woke up in the dim Berlin evening, and decided that I needed to disappear into the night.

I put on a tight black tank top, black leather pants, army boots, and headed out to get drunk.

I ended up at Berghain, the chaos, the music, the heat — everything was loud and intense.
I drank too much, danced until I couldn’t feel my legs, and let myself drift downstairs into Lab.oratory, looking for anything that would take my mind off Pablo.

The hallway was dark, humid, full of bodies and noise.
I leaned against the wall, trying to breathe, trying not to make eye contact, when I heard the heavy sound of boots on the floor.

I looked up.
A man was walking toward me — shaved head, strong jaw, lean muscular body, wearing black, moving with total confidence.
He didn’t smile, didn’t say a word.
He just stopped right in front of me and stared like he was already deciding what to do with me.

My heart started racing.

Without asking, he grabbed my forearm and pulled me toward the exit.
I didn’t resist.

Outside, the cold air hit my face and sobered me just enough to think.
He finally spoke:
“Klaus.”
Thick German accent.
Direct, almost commanding.

He told me to come with him.
I followed.

We reached his hotel room.
He walked in first, sat on the couch, poured himself a drink.
I stood there awkwardly until he got up, looked me dead in the eyes, and said quietly:

“Kneel.”

Something in me responded immediately.
I dropped to my knees.

He unzipped his pants, pulled himself out, and held the back of my head.
His voice was calm and low as he told me exactly what to do.
And I did it — willingly, almost gratefully — letting him take full control.

After a while he pulled me up by the arm, turned me around, pushed me onto all fours, and yanked my pants down in one movement.
There was no hesitation.
He entered me hard, steady, deep — holding my mouth to quiet my moans.
It hurt at first, but the adrenaline and the need took over quickly.
It was rough, fast, physical, and exactly the kind of escape I was looking for.

When he finished, he let me fall to the side of the bed, breathing heavily.
Then he said one word:

“Shower.”

So we went.

Under the hot water, he pushed me to my knees again.
The steam, the water, the alcohol in my system — everything mixed together into this wild, intense blur.
He used me, and I let him, my body reacting without thinking.

Afterwards, we collapsed on the bed, still wet, still naked.
I must have passed out almost immediately.

In the morning I woke up alone in his room, head pounding, clothes scattered on the floor.
There was no note, no goodbye — only the faint smell of last night on my skin.

And honestly?
That was enough.
It wasn’t romance. It wasn’t healing.
It was a release — brutal, needed, and strangely satisfying.

Berlin gave me exactly what I came looking for.

Dear diary,
After everything that happened in Berlin and the mess with Pablo, coming home felt like a reset. I went back to work, kept my head down, and avoided anything that even smelled like romance. A few weeks passed quietly, just routine, just deadlines. Honestly, I needed the break.

This morning felt like any other — until my boss called everyone into his office. He looked serious.
Then he told us he was retiring.

My heart twisted. He gave me my first chance, supported me through every step, believed in me even when I didn’t believe in myself. When the room emptied out, I stayed behind to hug him goodbye. It was emotional in that quiet, private way you don’t expect at work.

And then the door opened.

A tall man walked in — broad shoulders, dirty blond hair brushed back, clean suit that fit him almost too well. His presence filled the room before he even said a word. We were introduced to our new boss:

John.

The moment he shook my hand I felt something low in my stomach tighten — trouble, the kind that makes your pulse spike.
He was polite, charming, professional… and completely distracting.
The rest of the office felt it too. My group chat blew up instantly.

I tried to focus on work, but I found myself glancing at him every few minutes — his voice, his posture, the way he filled his suit. I barely got anything done.

Later at home, lying in bed, the quiet finally caught up with me.
It had been weeks since anyone touched me, and loneliness has a way of sneaking up on you at night.
I opened my dating app, scrolled mindlessly, ready to give up.

Then I heard the notification.

“Hi cute boy.”

The profile photo was just a muscular torso — which normally would get an immediate “nope.”
But then another image came in.

A face.

His face.
John.

My whole body went hot. I didn’t know whether to close the app or throw the phone out the window.
Before I could decide, he sent another message — short, direct, confident — basically asking if he could come over.

And for some reason I still can’t explain, I said yes.

Minutes later, a knock hit my door.
I opened it and nearly forgot how to breathe.

Instead of the suit from earlier, he wore a black tank top stretched tight across his chest and leather pants that did nothing to hide how solid he was.
His energy was totally different — darker, hungrier, absolutely sure of himself.

He stepped inside without asking and looked at me like he had already decided what was going to happen.
Before I could say a word, he pulled me close and kissed me — hard.

There was nothing hesitant about it.

he pushed me down to my knees. Allowing me to unzip his pants and reveal a big and throbbing member. I did what he told me without word.

Weeks of bottled-up need rushed straight through me.

The way he touched me, the way he held my jaw, the way he pushed me back toward the bedroom. the way he grabbed me and threw me on my back onto the bed. He lifted my legs over his shoulders and eneterd me roughly. It was a full on dominance session and I was feeling amazing and hot.

everything was controlled, deliberate, dominant.

I let him guide me, my body reacting faster than my brain could catch up.

Clothes came off quickly, landing somewhere on the floor.
The tension that started at work exploded the moment we hit the bed.
He was intense, physical, commanding — and I gave in to every move he made.
It was rough in the way you don’t realize you need until someone gives it to you, and I felt myself letting everything go. the breakup, the heartbreak, the weeks of silence. all of it.

When it was finally over, he lay there for a moment, breathing hard, before getting up and getting dressed.

The shift in his tone was immediate — the dominance was gone, replaced with something quieter.

He told me he had a wife. Kids. A whole life I wasn’t meant to touch.

He asked me to keep it between us.

And even though part of me wanted more, wanted the intensity of him again, I knew right then that this was the end.
I wasn’t going to be someone’s secret.
And I wasn’t going to risk my job for a man who was never mine to begin with.

We said goodbye quietly.

I closed the door behind him, leaned my forehead against it, and took a long breath.

It was exactly what I needed for one night —
and exactly what I needed to walk away from.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned recently, it’s this:

There’s always someone new waiting around the corner.

Coming soon

Coming soon

Coming soon