AmaliaRosse

꧁★ ❦ Amalia Rosse ❦ ★ ꧂

❀  ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻  ❀

 ❀  ⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻ ❀

I am Amalia, a girl who wants to know the world, every chat I have with you is a door to a new landscape, I love being able to walk through the city descurbur new places to visit, discover that each place can bring a nice memory. In my free time I love to paint and write new things that I have in mind. Would you like to know what it says? , My style is characterized by being bohemian and vintage, always attracted stories that describe me. With a smile on my face, I like to share my experiences and meet new ideas

¡Get to know me and discover more about me!

💗 I'm not going to tell you. 💗

My name is Amalia.. I am 25 years old, 1.60, 49 kg, thin but without marking muscle, good hips and a small size 85 of bust, but firm, and crowned by nipples, which are always erect and challenging, crossed by two piercing. I wear dyed hair and mane under the neck, and the bunny totally depilated, I want to tell you an experience I had recently, I want to know what you think of me.. And much less staying to dinner alone in a hotel. But that night had something different. something between calm and the need to get out of the script. The hotel restaurant was almost empty. Low lights, soft music—a piano, I think—and the quiet murmur of a couple of busy tables.. I sat by the window, overlooking the city, and ordered a glass of red wine. I didn't need company. Or at least I thought so. I watched him come in as I played with the stem of the cup between my fingers. High, with that air of who just came from a long day and has no rush to get anywhere. He sat alone, two tables away. He didn't look at me right away, but when he did, it was like we recognized each other. Though we'd never seen each other. Our eyes crossed just a few seconds. Enough to leave me with a half-hidden smile. There was something in his gaze. It wasn't impudence. It was curiosity.. A kind of pause. I didn't think too much. I called the waitress, ordered a slice of red fruit pie—an intuition, nothing more—and asked her to take it away.. I saw his expression when they handed it to him: surprise first, then a soft smile that melted me a little inside. He raised his glass towards me in a silent gesture of gratitude. I replied the same. That's all.. An invisible cross between two strangers with something in common. Minutes later, I watched him rise. He approached my table with a calm step, without tension. —Thank you for the cake,” he said, in a warm, unpretentious voice.. —I didn’t know if you like red fruits,” I replied.—. But it seemed you needed something sweet. She laughed softly. She asked me for permission with her gaze. I nodded.. As he sat in front of me, I felt the air become a little denser. not uncomfortable, but different. As if something was about to happen, but no urgency. We talk. Not of nonsense, but of small things that, for some reason, mattered more in that context: cities we had loved, forgotten books, flavors that reminded us of home.. His way of looking at me was not intense, but attentive. As if every word I said was a door he opened slowly. There was no contact. Only the accidental rubbing of our hands as we approached the glasses, or that instant when his knee touched mine under the table and none of us moved.. I felt a tingle. Not on the skin. In the idea. In the possibility. I didn't know her name. He didn't know mine either. But it didn't seem to take. The conversation flowed with a strange naturalness. I didn't feel that awkward urgency that sometimes comes with strangers. On the contrary. There was a warm peace between the two of us, as if this dinner—which we hadn’t planned—had been written somewhere.. In a moment, he was silent. He looked at me as if he had just realized that I was completely present. As if, all of a sudden, the rest doesn't matter anymore. —¿Can I ask you something? —she said, barely lowering her voice. I nodded.. —¿Do you always do this? I laughed, soft, without hiding the game. —¿Send cakes to strangers? No.. but today.. I felt I had to do it. He smiled with that mix of surprise and complicity that I like so much in a man who doesn’t have to pretend control.. He kept playing with the edge of his glass, as if he didn't want the night to end. And neither can I.. After dessert and a last glass of wine, we looked at the city through the restaurant window.. No one else seemed to exist. Just us, and that comfortable silence that sometimes is more intimate than any words. No proposals. No disguised invitations. Just a moment when he rubbed my hand, slowly, with the back of his fingers. A gesture as soft as a voiceless question. And in my skin, something responded. We rise together. We walked to the elevator, and all the way, we said nothing. But it wasn't awkward. I was expectant. Like when the door of a book opens and you still don’t know if you want to read it. but you can't leave it closed. In front of my room door, I turned to him. —¿You wanna come in? “I asked, with a smile that wasn’t bold, just honest.. He looked at me, and didn't answer with words. He just nodded, with a slowness that made my skin curl. I opened the door. The room was half-dark, and the city was still shining down there. I took off my shoes, like a ritual, and walked barefoot to the window. I felt him stay a few seconds on the threshold, watching me. —¿What do you see? —he asked. —A night that wasn’t in my plans,” I said, without looking at him.—. But I don't want to forget. I felt his presence behind me, without him touching me. So close I could tell her breath. I closed my eyes. I let myself be there, in that moment suspended between what had been and what we still did not know if it would be. And then yes, I felt it. His hand rubbed my back, barely. As if asking permission without words. And it didn't take more.

He was behind me, so close that the air between us seemed to beat. It didn't touch me at all, but I already felt it. It was that kind of silent electricity that turns on when someone looks at you with intent, but without rushing anything. I turned around slowly. Our eyes met, and for an instant, neither said anything. We were just there, discovering each other with an almost intimate calm. —¿Are you okay? —he asked me, with that voice that was already becoming familiar to me. A blend of firmness and softness. —I am. —I paused, barely smiling—. better than good. I didn’t know if it was the wine, the weather, the city, or him. But there was a part of me completely present. As if nothing else existed outside that room. I took a step towards him. then another. Not to hold me, not to do anything. Just to feel what was happening between us by reducing that distance. He raised his hand and rubbed my face with his fingers. The back first, as if to caress the air before touching me. Then the palm, warm, barely holding my cheek. I closed my eyes. Not because I needed to hide, but because I wanted to record the feeling. We stay like this. still. Breathing the same moment. And when he kissed me, it was slow. Deep without being urgent. As if in that first kiss I decided to learn my rhythm, my language, my skin. It was a kiss of discovery, not conquest. I laid my hands on his chest. I felt how he breathed. How it was contained. How he respected me. And that turned me on more than any touch. Then we sat by the window. barefoot. He beside me, with his legs stretched. I with my head on his shoulder, seeing how the distant lights of the city kept shining as if all this were not happening. We speak softly. Of those things that are not said in a first meeting. Small scars, manias, pending trips. Things you keep without realizing. But that suddenly seem safe with a stranger looking at you without judgment. He asked me about my laughter. Said she was pretty. I told her that hers was honest. We both laughed.. The clock was ticking any time. But there inside there was no time. Just that night, that instant, that story we hadn't planned. And although we didn't know if there would be an after, in that moment it didn't matter. We had each other. For a few hours, for a night, so that connection will last as real as the skin. As intimate as a secret whispered between two people who owe each other nothing but the truth of what they feel.

I woke up to the light seeping shyly through the curtains. The city was still out there, alive, indifferent, but different. As if something had changed in her. or maybe just in me. He was still sleeping by my side. He breathed with that deep calm of one who is not running after time. He had an arm over me, light, as if he didn't want to hold back, just accompany. I watched him for a few minutes, memorizing the details that I knew would later try to escape my memory: the line of his jaw, the way one of his eyebrows curved barely as he slept, that unconscious gesture of his half-open mouth.. I could hear the silence between the two of us. A comfortable, weightless silence. I didn't feel exposed or vulnerable. I was sitting. present. And that, in someone I didn't know at all, surprised me more than any word said the night before.. I moved carefully, without waking him, and wrapped myself in the sheet as I walked to the window.. The city was already awake. Cars, birds, life. Everything was taking its course. But I, inside, felt suspended. As if I hadn't yet landed completely in reality. I heard him move in the bed. Then his voice, rough, just a whisper: “Are you awake?” “A while ago,” I replied, without turning—. I didn't want to break the moment. —You didn't break it, he said—. You just made it more real. I felt it rising. After a while, he was next to me, also wrapped in a sheet. He leaned against the window frame with me, silently. Our hands sought each other, as if they couldn't be separated. —¿Was this just one night? —he asked, without looking directly, as if the question was too fragile to hold with his eyes. I took time to respond. Not because I didn't know, but because I didn't want to lie to you. —I don't know, I said honestly—. But it was a night that I will remember. He nodded.. He kissed me on the temple, soft, without asking for anything. And in that kiss I understood something: sometimes, the most real bonds do not need a name, nor a future. They just need to exist at their right time, without disguised promises. We stayed a little longer, embracing the day that was already beginning. Soon, each would return to his world. To your routine. to your things. But something had changed. There was a new story in the folds of my skin. And in his gaze, he knew: he too would take her with him. Without planning it. Without owing anything. Just two souls that crossed at the exact moment, and knew how to recognize each other.

... It wasn't an abrupt or painful farewell. Just a quiet morning, with a long look and a last handshake in the hotel hallway. None promised to write again. Neither asked if the other had a partner, children, or a different country to call home.. They just let go, with that rare and beautiful feeling of having lived something perfect. Incomplete, yes. But perfect in its own way. I went on with my life. Travel, work, some relationship that never had that quiet electricity I felt that night. Sometimes, in the middle of a city, with a glass of wine between my fingers and a soft melody in the background, I would find myself thinking of him.. Not out of nostalgia, but out of that inexplicable need to go back mentally to a time when everything was simple. and profoundly real. And then, I saw it. It was a grey afternoon in Lisbon. I was sitting on a small terrace, overlooking the river. I had an open notebook on the table and a cold coffee next to it. I had come alone, again, escaping a little from the noise and myself. I was looking distracted when I felt someone was watching me. I looked up. And there he was. It didn't change so much. A little more beard, maybe. The hair a little more messy. But his eyes. remained the same. It wasn't exactly surprise what I saw in them. It was something else.. Like we both knew, from some hidden corner of time, that eventually this was gonna happen. —Hello, he said, as if we had spoken yesterday. —Hello, I answered, feeling how my heart recognized before my mind. We look at each other for a few seconds. long. calm. Without tension. As if we were proving that, indeed, we still existed. —¿May I? —she asked, pointing to the chair in front of me. —Of course. He sat down, with that same way of not invading, of being without taking up too much space. I looked at him with a mixture of tenderness and amazement. I didn't know if I wanted to hug him or ask him for every day since that night. —I thought of you more than I should,” he said, bluntly.. —they are. Though I promised myself not to, I confessed. —¿Why is that? 'Cause I liked too much how it ended. clean. No dirty endings. Without losing the magic. He nodded, as if he understood exactly what I meant.. As if I'd felt the same. —¿Are you alone? —he asked, not with jealousy, but with real interest. —"Yes," I answered—. ¿What about you? - Yeah, too.. And I'm not looking for anyone. but I'm not lying to you: seeing you, I felt that I was looking for something for a long time, without knowing it. Suspiré. Not because I was sad, but because something in my chest had loosened. We stay talking for hours. We caught up without a hurry. He had lived in two countries since then, changed jobs, learned to cook (more or less). I had written more, cried more, laughed more. I told her of my failed attempts at love, of my fear of ever feeling again something I couldn't control. —But that's exactly what I felt that time, I told her.—. That I didn't need to control anything. —What we felt that night,” he said, correcting me gently, “was truer than many complete relationships.. We walked through the city together again. Quiet at times. There was something beautiful about not needing to fill in the silences. His hand rubbed mine as we walked down a cobbled street. This time, I didn't let her go. And when, that night, in another room —with another view, another climate, another skin a little more lived— we met again. I understood something that had been silently waiting inside me: It was not the repetition of that first night. It wasn't nostalgia. It was something new. Deeper. Being more conscious. without expectations. But with all the intensity that survives time. While he hugged me, with his body, with his voice, with the way he said my name as if it were a place I was returning to. I knew you don't always need to start from scratch. Sometimes it just takes to continue what never ended.

The next morning came without warning, as it always does. We were sitting in the hotel cafeteria, in front of two coffees that were cooling faster than we were talking.. He flipped through the menu without much interest; I watched him in silence, wondering what was going through his mind when he made those long pauses between sentences.. —¿And now what? —I asked finally, without disguising the doubt. I said it not with reproach, nor with fear. It was just a question that was there, between us, since the sun peeped out the window of that room. He looked up, held my eyes with that serenity that always disarmed me. —“I don’t know,” he replied.—. And for the first time, I don't mind not knowing. We stay a moment like this. Looking at us. In that silence where none of the answers were urgent. We didn't know if we'd see each other again. We didn't make promises. We don't agree on anything. We just shared one more walk, slow, between cobbled alleys and facades that looked like exits from another time. We laughed a little bit.. Let's talk about movies. We play weightless tunes, as if the soul needed to float for a while before re-charging. And when it was time to say goodbye, it wasn't sad. It was soft. Like closing a book after reading a last line that does not seek to give answers, but leaves you breathing slower. We hold each other long. Of those hugs where everything is said without sound. He whispered something in my ear—a phrase I will not repeat, because it is not from this story, but only mine—and left.. I watched him walk to the station, not looking back. And I stood in the corner with my hands in my pockets and my heart full of a feeling that had no name. It was no loss. There was no hope. It was something else. Maybe the certainty that some people appear to change the way you feel, even if they do not stay. Maybe it was just love. in its freest form. Or maybe, in some other country, in another city, in another autumn, we will cross again. And if not. How lucky to have coincided.