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S̲œ̲u̲r̲ M̲u̲s̲e̲t̲t̲a̲ㅤ⁽ ♡ ⁾ㅤ𝖠 𝗌𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗋𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗆𝗈𝗂𝗌𝖾𝗅𝗅𝖾 𝗂𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖺𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝗈𝖿 𝖺 𝗌𝗒𝗅𝗉𝗁-𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖾.

Joined May 2023
Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)Photo by ͏ ͏ ͏ (@ilivia)
⠀ ⠀ The glimmer of dawn's first light, ˖ 𐚁 ⠀ She is the ripple in a tranquil lake ⠀ The fragrance of flowers in a quiet ⠀ Meadow, 𝗢͟𝗹͟𝗶͟𝘃͟𝗶͟𝗮͟ 𝗥͟𝗼͟𝗱͟𝗿͟𝗶͟𝗴͟𝗼. ル ˖𓍯𓂃 ⠀
𓇢𓆸 𝘝͟𝘦͟𝘳͟𝘴͟𝘦͟𝘴͟ 𝘰͟𝘧͟ 𝘷͟𝘦͟𝘹͟𝘢͟𝘵͟𝘪͟𝘰͟𝘯͟𝘴, tiny.cc/nnoni. ོ˖ ᨒ
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⠀ There was a time when I believed happiness had to be earned through survival, as if every smile needed permission from all the wounds I carried before it. I spent years becoming someone strong enough for everyone else, while quietly forgetting how to be gentle with myself. ⠀
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⠀ 𝗜 𝘀𝘂𝗿𝘃𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆 𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝗱𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀, 𝘆𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗵𝗼𝘄, 𝗺𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗰𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗳𝘁𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗶𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲. ⠀
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͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ 5
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͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ 4
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͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ 3
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͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ 2
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͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ ͏ 1
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⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
⠀⠀⠀ There is something tender in this pause. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ Comfort in this solitude, in the way the world seems to dim its noise just enough for me to hear the quiet rhythm within myself. And yet, there is also a longing subtle, almost invisible for something beyond this stillness. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ There is something tender in this pause. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ Something unspoken yet deeply felt, like a memory I cannot fully recall but refuse to forget. I am here, yet part of me lingers elsewhere— lost in the softness of time, in the quiet ache of being present and absent all at once. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ My fingers rest near my lips, not in hesitation, but in a kind of quiet contemplation— as though I am trying to hold onto a fleeting feeling before it slips away. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ I sit here, folded into myself like a quiet secret, the soft hum of the room wrapping around me as if it understands the silence I carry. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ Here’s to slow dinners, gentle nights, and finding joy in the tiniest pieces of ordinary life. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘰𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦. ⠀⠀⠀
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⠀⠀⠀ Soft sunlight resting on the sidewalks, quiet laughter hiding between city walls, and a moment that almost feels too gentle to belong to the rush of the real world. ⠀⠀⠀
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