@jooxzamalkawe_10: #لا_تترك_صلاتك_مهما_كان🕌🖤

Youssef joox

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Thursday 05 December 2024 04:25:06 GMT

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We sit on the rooftop, wrapped in his favorite plaid blanket, the one that smells like campfire smoke and his mint-scented shampoo. Around us, the city lights shimmer like squares on a chessboard, each glowing window a glimpse into a life that isn’t ours. Hank is talking about how he used to dream of being an astronaut when he was a kid, his voice soft but alive. I smile, picturing him in a giant spacesuit, and can’t help but think about how often he’s dreamed of the stars while I’ve clung stubbornly to the ground. Inside, everything feels like it’s unraveling—tomorrow I’m leaving for a year, and every word he says cuts me, like I’m already missing him. I rest my head on his arm, feeling it tremble slightly. This arm is home. Every night, I fall asleep clutching his wrist like a child afraid of being left behind. His fingers still on my shoulder. The night air feels thick, charged with something unsaid. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?” he asks, his voice stretched taut, like a string on the verge of snapping. I press closer, as if that could freeze this moment. “I don’t want to lose this arm,” I whisper finally. My words dissolve into the night like a falling star behind him. He doesn’t answer. His silence is cold, as if the city itself has dimmed…🤎💜

We sit on the rooftop, wrapped in his favorite plaid blanket, the one that smells like campfire smoke and his mint-scented shampoo. Around us, the city lights shimmer like squares on a chessboard, each glowing window a glimpse into a life that isn’t ours. Hank is talking about how he used to dream of being an astronaut when he was a kid, his voice soft but alive. I smile, picturing him in a giant spacesuit, and can’t help but think about how often he’s dreamed of the stars while I’ve clung stubbornly to the ground. Inside, everything feels like it’s unraveling—tomorrow I’m leaving for a year, and every word he says cuts me, like I’m already missing him. I rest my head on his arm, feeling it tremble slightly. This arm is home. Every night, I fall asleep clutching his wrist like a child afraid of being left behind. His fingers still on my shoulder. The night air feels thick, charged with something unsaid. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?” he asks, his voice stretched taut, like a string on the verge of snapping. I press closer, as if that could freeze this moment. “I don’t want to lose this arm,” I whisper finally. My words dissolve into the night like a falling star behind him. He doesn’t answer. His silence is cold, as if the city itself has dimmed…🤎💜

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