In the hush of midnight, I sit by a still pond—my black hair drifting like ink on water, my face barely visible in the dim glow. This is not performance; it’s my soul speaking without words. Here, time slows. Beauty isn’t curated—it’s found in the tremor of a breath, the ripple on skin, the quiet defiance of being unseen. I write this not for likes, but because silence remembers me better than noise ever could.

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QEABC

yuki.haruka92

Personal introduction