Diabolic
Maddy May, Tommy Pistol Pic(s)
The space between us hummed with a tension so palpable it felt like a third presence in the room, a silent witness to every stolen glance and every breath held a moment too long. My fingers, tracing the rim of my glass, remembered the accidental brush of her wrist, a spark of forbidden heat that lingered on my skin like a phantom touch. The scent of her perfume, something light and floral, clung to the air long after she had left, a ghostly reminder of her proximity. I could still see the way the lamplight caught the curve of her neck as she laughed, a sound that wrapped around me, intimate and secret. Every conversation was a delicate dance of double meanings, our words veiling a hunger we dared not name aloud. In the quiet of the house, I would find traces of her—a discarded book, a strand of hair on a pillow—and each discovery was a small, private thrill. The memory of her gaze, heavy with unspoken understanding, would flood my ve with a warmth that was both exhilarating and agonizing. We existed in this suspended state, two planets caught in a shared orbit, forever drawn together yet bound by an invisible force to remain apart. This secret life we cultivated in the shadows was a masterpiece of longing, a beautiful, aching torment built from everything we never did.
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