I like my mornings quiet. Not empty—just quiet.
The soft hum of the city, the distant sound of cars passing, the faint smell of coffee drifting through my window—it's my little moment before the world begins asking things of me.
My name is Valerine.
I'm the kind of person who notices small things. The way the sky changes color before it rains. The way people smile when they think no one is watching. The way silence can say more than words ever could.
I work in an office where everything feels the same—same faces, same routines, same conversations repeated in different ways. I don't mind it. I've always been good at staying in my own space, keeping things simple, predictable.
But lately, predictable has started to feel like lonely.
I have my habits. Coffee, no sugar. A notebook I carry everywhere but rarely open. Music that matches my mood even when I don't understand it myself.
And I've always believed something without ever saying it out loud:
That the right kind of closeness doesn't force its way in. It arrives quietly… and stays.
I didn't know it then, but something—or someone—was about to change that.
For now, though, I am just Valerine.
A girl with a quiet heart, a mind full of thoughts she doesn't always share, and no idea how deeply her life was about to shift.