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"𝙒𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚́𝙙 𝙋𝙮𝙧𝙚𝙨 𝘽𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝘽𝙚𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙮 𝙂𝙧𝙖𝙨𝙥, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙐𝙢𝙗𝙧𝙖𝙡 𝙆𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙨 𝙃𝙖𝙣𝙙𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙐𝙣𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙈𝙮 𝙎𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚 𝙄𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙇𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙃𝙚𝙧 𝙊𝙘𝙪𝙡𝙖𝙧 𝘼𝙗𝙮𝙨𝙨" is not a letter, not merely a confession, but a breathing wound stretched into eternity.

It is the cry of someone who dares not speak their truth aloud, whose words come not as declarations but as ashen whispers carried through the marrow of time itself. This is not love written for one pair of hands alone-it is written for the trembling hush between all hands that ever reached and were refused, for every silence that has ever burned louder than a scream.

Here, love is not tender; it is catastrophic. It is a pyre lit where flesh meets memory, where longing bleeds into forever. The beloved is both one person and something more-a figure, a star, an abyss into which the heart willingly drowns. The narrator speaks to her, but the words slip beyond her skin and strike the bones of eternity, echoing back as a prayer both sacred and defiled.

This work belongs not to earthly romance but to the theater of shadows, where yearning is too immense to be contained in mortal syllables. It is a confession that cannot be spoken aloud without shattering the world it names. It is a silence so profound it resonates like a scream against the firmament.

If you read this, you will not simply hear a voice-you will hear the silence that devours the voice. You will stand in the ruins of unsent letters and feel their tremor in your chest. You will be haunted by words that try to love and yet cannot love without first burning.

This is not a story. It is a relic. It is the