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Queen of fucking everything

She never spoke much about herself and yet shared everything to me. She makes me feel good and that's all that mattered. I never tried asking her for anything other than what she was willing to share. The moment I met her I told her I like her. That was one of the few first words I had to her. She enjoyed it, probably for the attention, but I didn't mind. I did like her. After that she made me all the more weaker with desire. She talked to me about tiny, little pieces of her life, love and family. She never told me her birthday though. I shrugged, wanting to laugh and sigh at the same time. She knows a lot of dialects and familiar with foreign ones. That was how it started, this newborn friendship. She speaks to me in detail her aspirations and heartaches. Who was I to say no? I was entranced by her mystical aura. She writes well too, something that I feel is being drained from me. She gives me reason to be something else. She shares to me her room and her shoes, not minding the mess brought on by her sofa as she drags it down the stairs. Such silliness captivated me with a lukewarm feeling of admiration.

A beginning of something wonderful.

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