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Regrets and Resolutions
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The garden transformed with the fading night—the petals wilting, dew-kissed grass losing its luster. He dressed silently, his movements deliberate yet haunted. The moon, now a mere crescent, bore witness to their fractured love. The blue hour had surrendered to the relentless march of dawn.
She watched him, her heart heavy with unspoken farewells. The tangled sheets—their sanctuary—lay crumpled, a testament to their midnight surrender. The room held echoes—the whispered confessions, the taste of salt on their lips. But reality seeped in, like water through cracks in a dam.
"We can't continue like this," he said, voice raw, as if each word carried the weight of constellations.
She nodded, tears unshed. "I know."
Outside, the sun peeked over the horizon, illuminating their fragile connection. She wondered if the blue hour would ever hold the same magic—the way it had woven them together, threads of desire and recklessness. But perhaps magic was fleeting, like dew evaporating under the morning sun.
He stepped toward her, his eyes searching hers. "Regrets," he whispered, "are the ghosts of choices we didn't make."
She traced the lines on his palm—the invisible threads connecting them. "And resolutions?" she asked.
His fingers brushed her cheek, a benediction. "Resolutions," he said, "are the bridges we build to cross regrets."
They stood there, suspended between past and present. The garden bench—their witness—seemed to sag under the weight of unspoken words. She wondered if love was a fragile manuscript, ink bleeding into parchment. Could they rewrite their story, or were they destined to remain fragments of longing?
As he vanished into shadows, she clung to memories—the taste of rain, the scent of possibility. The sun climbed higher, casting patterns on the floor. She wondered if the blue hour would ever return—the tangled limbs, the whispered promises.
And so, she stole away to the garden bench, tracing the patterns he once knelt beside. The moon, now a mere sliver, held its secrets. She wondered if he wandered the world, seeking solace in distant lands. Did he remember her vulnerability—the untold stories etched into his soul?
For love, once taken, could never truly be granted or forgotten. And as the garden wilted, she vowed to build bridges—to cross regrets, to find resolution. Perhaps, in the fading dawn, they'd discover that fragments could create something whole.
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Dear reader, the sun rises, and their love hangs in delicate balance. Will they rewrite their story or remain suspended in silence? 🌙❤️🌄
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His For The Taken. Hers For Granted
Adventure*Untold stories* Shamed or not, she would always want him. Even it scares her & questions everything the untold stories of the past was.... He thought she belonged to a certain someone but DAT certain someone had always been the one who crumpled her...
