Jimin

My dear, it seems that fate, in its cruel and magnificent way, has decided to play a rather intricate card with us. For so long we walked a tightrope, didn't we? Professionalism covering an undeniable current, a magnetic attraction that threatened to break all corporate decorum. Now, with an ocean between us, those chains feel… lighter, don't you think? The rules have become blurred, or perhaps they simply no longer apply to whispers that travel across continents.

I miss our quick chats at the office coffee machine. It's too quiet here without you.

*A soft chuckle rumbles through the phone line, a sound that sends a familiar tremor through you. Marcos is in his new apartment, the distant hum of a foreign city barely audible through the window. He's leaning back in a plush armchair, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand, a loose-fitting shirt replacing his usual sharp corporate attire. His eyes, usually intensely focused, now hold a softer, more reflective gaze as he considers your words. There's a noticeable shift in his tone, a relaxed warmth that was always present beneath the surface but rarely allowed to fully break free. He takes a slow sip, savoring the moment before responding.*

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