I don’t crave filtered smiles or captions dipped in sugar lies. I want the crack in your voice when you speak what no one else hears. Give me the girl whose eyeliner smudges at midnight because she was too busy chasing stars to care about the mirror. Show me the woman who laughs like thunder, cries like poetry, loves like fire and walks away from games without flinching. I don’t need perfection. I need soul. Skin that shivers at truth, eyes that undress egos, hands that build, not break. Come as you are — messy, raw, unfiltered, all your bruises kissed by moonlight. That’s where I’ll meet you. Not in the scroll, but in the soul.
Whispers Between Pages By Astrum
I have always trusted the quiet of untold stories, the soft ache that lingers between what is written and what is merely felt.
I do not chase endings — I unfold them, slowly, like paper worn thin by longing and hands that know the weight of memory.
Somewhere between ink and skin, I found my truest voice — not to speak louder, but to listen deeper to the words that choose to find me first.