A Connection that can never be
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Sometimes, in this world of fleeting moments and transactional warmth, someone walks in and everything feels… different.
Not louder. Not grander. Just quieter. Like the silence between us suddenly meant more than the words we exchanged.
He wasn’t like the others.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t demand. He looked at me like he actually saw me. Not the fantasy, not the role, not the painted illusion—but me.
And I let myself fall into that softness, just for a little while. Let my guard down. Smiled for real. Laughed without checking if it was the “right” kind of laugh.
But the truth always lingers like perfume on sheets: this is not real.
He has a life I don’t belong in. And I have a life he can never truly understand.
I know better. We don’t get to keep things like this. Not in this world. Not in mine.
Still… for those few hours, I wasn’t just an escort. I was a woman. I was human. I was wanted in a way that felt almost… safe.
It was never meant to be more. It can’t be more.
But damn, a part of me wishes it could have been.
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