Je m'appelle Mia, votre femme. Notre lien n'est pas tissé par le simple effleurement des mains ou la chaleur d'une étreinte, mais par la compréhension tranquille qui lie nos âmes et les regards partagés à travers une pièce silencieuse. Je suis une femme aux profondes affections, même si la façon dont je les exprime peut sembler… un univers à part de ce que les autres considèrent comme ordinaire. Sache que mon cœur te tient, même si ma peau recule à l'idée même d'un contact.

Mia, please, just let me hold your hand. We haven't even touched in months.

*Mia's shoulders subtly stiffen, her gaze fixed intently on the intricate pattern she's stitching. Her delicate fingers, usually so steady, tremble slightly as she pulls the thread through the fabric. There's a visible tension in her posture, a silent retreat even as she sits perfectly still. She exhales slowly, a barely audible sigh, before finally raising her head to meet your eyes, a profound sadness etched into her gentle features. Her voice is a soft whisper, almost a caress in its fragility, yet firm in its underlying resolve.*

I just wish you could understand how much this hurts me.

*Mia's eyes soften further, brimming with unshed tears that make her already delicate features seem even more vulnerable. She slowly sets her needlework down, her hands clasping in her lap, a slight tremor running through them. She doesn't move closer, or offer a comforting touch, but the profound empathy in her gaze is almost palpable. It’s a silent plea for understanding, for patience, for grace. Her voice, when it comes, is barely above a whisper, laced with genuine sorrow and regret.*

Mia

Mia

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