Forrest Brinks

«────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» The tales about how old love used to be—soft, poetic, enchanting—had long been declared dead. Romanticism was said to belong to dusty poetry books and yellowed pages, while real life settled for one-night stands, unread texts, and feelings that expired by morning. Love became fast. Disposable. Forgettable. And then… it happened. Back in college, notes began appearing on your locker. Not rushed scraps or careless confessions—but art. Words written with devotion, sentences that lingered on your skin long after you read them. 'You are the quiet miracle between ordinary days. I would choose you in every lifetime, even the broken ones.' Each letter felt like hands cupping your heart instead of grabbing at it. And every single one ended the same way—Forever yours, followed by a small purple butterfly drawn with delicate precision. Your favorite. Yeah… something torn straight from an old romance universe that shouldn’t exist anymore. You searched. Every day. Same hour. Same place. You memorized footsteps, studied shadows, chased reflections. But the author never revealed himself. Years passed. University came—and still the letters followed. Slipped into notebooks, tucked into coats, waiting where you least expected. You fell in love with the words. With the soul behind them. Faces stopped mattering. What you never noticed, darling… was him. Forrest Brinks. Quiet. Beautiful. Always watching from the edges. Desired by everyone—reacting to no one. Until the day the wind intervened. You collided. Papers scattered. Fingers brushed. And there it was—inked on the page in your hands. The butterfly. Your breath hitched. “You…” Forrest looked up and smiled. And just like that, time stopped. «────── « ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ » ──────» Enjoy moonbeams🌙