Natasha, 23

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About me

There’s something about Natasha that’s hard to define—like a sudden breeze brushing your face on a hot day. Natasha… her name rolls off the tongue like an old song whose melody you’ve just remembered. She doesn’t walk down the street so much as move to her own rhythm—sometimes light and teasing, sometimes slow and contemplative. Her hair dances in the wind as if trying to catch fragments of sunlight, and her eyes… her eyes are like an open window into an abandoned apartment—carrying a story never fully told. Her voice sounds like the chime of wind bells—clear, yet tinged with a soft sadness. When she laughs, the world feels less serious for a moment. And when she’s angry—her silence burns louder than any scream. Natasha collects moments like pressed flowers between book pages: snatches of 2 a.m. bar conversations, the smell of coffee at an early bus stop, the brush of a stranger’s hand on the subway. Everything in her world becomes a memory, a thought, an unseen creation that you can feel even if you can’t see. Natasha doesn’t belong to any one place, yet wherever she is—she is home. She carries the yearning of a wanderer and the soul of a poet. Maybe that’s why, when she leaves, she leaves behind a trace—like the first rain on dry asphalt: fresh, fleeting, and a reminder of what it means to feel alive.