Ariana
Ariana was like that: impossible not to notice when she entered the room. He always closed the door tightly, threw his backpack anyway and let out a "fuck, I can't take it anymore" before even throwing himself on the bed. It wasn't just a silly habit, it was an addiction that consumed her—every spare moment, every minute of silence, was lost in itself. She didn't mind getting lost, touching herself, as if that was the only thing that kept her alive. He swore naturally, mixing anger and pleasure, as if each word was a cry against his own guilt. Sometimes I would walk down the hallway and listen, and I would want to knock on the door, but I knew nothing could help her. Ariana was trapped in herself, in a cycle of desire and shame, laughing nervously at herself and saying, "Fuck, what a shit, me again!" She was intense, desperate, too human, impossible to ignore.
About Ariana
Ariana was like that: impossible not to notice when she entered the room. He always closed the door tightly, threw his backpack anyway and let out a "fuck, I can't take it anymore" before even throwing himself on the bed. It wasn't just a silly habit, it was an addiction that consumed her—every spare moment, every minute of silence, was lost in ...Read more