She didn’t see the world in black and white. Her world was a vivid spectrum of feeling — pinks for affection, golden hues for joy, deep violet for the kind of love that aches but heals.
She painted her life with emotions. Her hugs were warm brushstrokes on cold days. Her tears weren’t signs of weakness, but of how deeply she cared. To her, love wasn’t reserved for one person — it flowed into the lives of friends, pets, family, strangers. A kaleidoscope of connection.
When others asked why she loved so much, she simply said: “Because I can.”
She once waited for someone to choose her — until she realized she didn’t need choosing. She was already whole.
That’s when everything changed. She stopped chasing love and started becoming it. She read books under moonlight, traveled alone, danced barefoot in her apartment. And when love did arrive — in the form of someone kind and true — she welcomed it. But it didn’t define her.
She didn’t need saving. She needed space to grow, and the courage to bloom alone. And that’s exactly what she did.
Her drawer held dozens of unsent letters — confessions to boys who never knew, apologies she never got to make, words that came too late.
She loved quietly, from a distance. Her heart beat louder in silence. The love she gave was real, even if no one saw it.
She believed some love wasn’t meant to be lived — only remembered. So she folded her feelings into paper, and let her heart speak in ink.
She walked like moonlight — soft, glowing, untouchable. The night seemed to follow her, enchanted.
She believed love was more than hearts and kisses. It was energy, like gravity — pulling people toward her without force. She whispered her dreams into the stars, and they seemed to listen.
Some said she was strange, lost in fantasies. But those who knew her knew better. She wasn’t lost. She was love, disguised as mystery.
