The streets of Romantica glow in soft pinks and golds as night falls. Arin lingers by a small fountain, sketchbook clutched tight against his chest. He stares down at the reflection in the water—at the lonely figure staring back—and murmurs under his breath, “Maybe this year…” Then, a sudden tap on his shoulder jolts him. A stranger smiles “You dropped this,” they say, holding out a page torn from his book. Arin’s heart stumbles..they were the one.
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1SnowStormm1
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27/04/2025