Never Meet

Veritas

Back in London, Drea's inbox blinked with one final message. It appeared suddenly,

almost like a phantom, from the account

she had followed for weeks:

"Some love stories are meant to be

remembered, not lived."

The message hit her like a stone. She

franticaly checked his profile-gone.

Deleted. The account that had consumed her nights, the smirk that had haunted her thoughts, vanished.

Weeks of longing, obsession, late-night

confessions, and imagined intimacy-

erased with a single digital swipe.

But something lingered. Not anger, not

sadness. A strange, piercing clarity. She

realized she had been chasing a reflection,

a curated fragment of someone who may

not have been real-or at least, not in the

way she had believed.

And yet, in the absence of the account, she

felt the pull more than ever. The emptiness

it left was tangible, almost physical. Every

photograph she had seen, every message

she had read, became a ghost she could

not release. Her heart ached she felt consumed,she couldn’t belive or she didn't wanted to but one thing was sure she didn't knew whatever to keep hopping or let go.Drea was more than someone that felt for a smile she was addicted to the tought of him.