ؘ

͏ ͏—— Vòl. 8: "March 1881-1888," Nocthollow.

@vivresainte Come with me, then. Fairytales are always kinder when they’re shared.

@Lesyeul You belong in the fairytales, Kakak.

Those naked, fairy-tale eyes... Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in The Diary of Anaïs Nin Vol. 1 1932-1934.

@jovgwon I thought it was you...?

@Lesyeul who is HE?

@Cazains Well... ladies & gents… meet the reason Italy still has my heart.

@Lesyeul You forgot to tag me.

There is a peculiar sorrow to Italy, one that resembles a person who mistook silence for dignity and devotion for enough.

Date me before summer learns to leave.

If I cannot have another season beside you, then I am grateful for the simple certainty that somewhere, beneath this same patient sky, you continue to exist—and that, every now and then, the world still allows me to witness the beautiful fact of you.

Some encounters are too exquisite to survive the weight of permanence; they exist instead as quiet constellations, illuminating us from a distance long after the night has fallen.

We were never promised the ordinary luxuries of time, only the rare miracle of crossing paths at all. Perhaps that is why I have never wished to rewrite our ending.

There is a peculiar comfort in being able to see you from afar, as though distance itself has become a gentler form of presence.

Perhaps Virginia Woolf was right—nothing is ever truly gone so long as it continues to alter the shape of us. I still miss you, despite how briefly our paths converged, but I have come to find solace in the quiet privilege of knowing you remain somewhere within the world.

𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔣𝔬𝔤.

the dreams i want to live in

The sea did not heal them. It merely learned their name and carried it farther than the one they had quietly loved.

They never called it love aloud; they simply allowed it to settle into the architecture of their being, until every glance became a cathedral and every farewell another relic to preserve.

They were never anyone’s forever, only the place where someone once almost stayed.

Time never persuaded them to forget; it merely taught them how to live beside the absence. Like Italy itself, they possessed a beauty that felt centuries old, sunlit yet haunted, where every smile concealed a cathedral of longing.

If Summer Situationship in Italy were a person, they would be someone who once loved in silence and never asked to be loved in return. They carried affection with remarkable grace, allowing it to remain exactly what it was—an unspoken devotion, neither diminished nor fulfilled.