Word by word, piece by piece, she exposed the truth.
Each day a new letter came, until there was nothing left to tell.
No secrets to hide, no stories untold.
This is the story of Layla.
I remember a morning where the golden tendrils of early morning sunlight filtered through the slits in the curtains and delicately traced the features of my face, synchronized with his long, tan fingers. His light touch was such a small mercy to the force behind his thrusts the night before. My whole body ached in pleasure, making the diamond ring he'd gifted to me the night before feel so significantly heavy.
He was mine.
I was his.
And we were beautiful.
Love, Layla.
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