ep. II "With you, my love, Paris is more than a city—it’s a dream, a poem, a sweet place that breathes love in every corner."


Гео и язык канала: Весь мир, Английский
Категория: Игры


ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ( ..✉️ | MAIL &. INK 1990's )
Paris in the rain wove new memories for them, and here, beneath the soft patter of droplets, they etched their story anew.

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The end &. Of the story.


📎 ..) Paris became a silent keeper of their love, where each memory unfurled like petals in bloom. Every moment they shared was painted with laughter and woven in gentle smiles. If only the world could glimpse the boundlessness of their love.

ㅤㅤㅤ&.ㅤTRUR LOVE WILL ✉️❤️
ALWAYS TRY, TO LEARN YOU.


🍭 while other men mi
ght bring her flowers, this one learned the secrets of her favorite blooms, played the notes of her heart’s melody upon his violin, and scattered her days with sweet delights. and if he had nothing to give but his time, that would be enough—for he would spend it all uncovering the essence of the girl he so deeply cherished.




One day, the gentleman sent a letter of love to the maiden. Its words, scattered and foolish perhaps, yet stirred a smile as sweet as summer’s dawn upon her lips.


💐(...) 1990's Though he could never weave words as she did, she knew this: whenever he played his violin, he became the very image of beauty, aglow with a gentle gaze that held her as softly as the melody he summoned. His music whispered, tender and soft as falling light, and for her, it was more than enough—more than any words could ever hope to be.






The Love that they share. 🧙‍♀


The Music he sing for her. 👦


The—picture of us. 🐕




1990's : Love may be an exquisite splendor or, at times, a labyrinthine tangle. Yet, the gentleman and the maiden appeared jubilant, with Paris and the Eiffel Tower bearing witness to their affection. The melodies he serenaded transformed into poetic verses within her writings. Observe how impeccable they are.








II/c. (.. POETRY &. VIOLIN GAZE. )


known throughout the small coffee shops of the Latin Quarter for her way of writing about love—as though she could describe the feeling so perfectly, it would come to life between the lines. Her words were sweet, ethereal, a melody that lingered. And yet, for all her talent in putting love to paper, she had never felt it herself. Love, that rare and poetic thing, had always eluded her like the last drop of wine in a delicate glass.

❤️ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤone autumn evening, as Paris glowed with the warm,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤgolden hues of dusk, Amélie wandered to the
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤPont Alexandre III. She went there often,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤa ritual she kept when inspiration ran dry.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤShe was sketching ideas in her notebook,
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤher gaze lost in the lights that shimmered on
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe Seine, when she noticed a man standing
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤat the edge of the bridge. His dark hair caught
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤin the evening breeze, he looked lost in
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤa melody only he could hear.






ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤDay by Day
ㅤㅤㅤ03.30 p.m — Daylight. 🎛️

“I have something for you,” he said, pulling a small velvet box from his pocket.

Her breath caught, but when he opened the box, she found a golden charm—a delicate locket shaped like a rose.

“This isn’t what you think,” he said with a grin, noticing her wide eyes. “It’s a token—a promise, perhaps.”

“A promise of what?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“That one day, I’ll find the right words, like you do in your poetry,” he replied, his gaze soft as he clasped the necklace around her neck. “And when I do, I’ll tell you everything I feel, with no music, no words left unsaid.”

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