rouvaje

[rouvaje]

‘ . . 𝐴 𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑒 𝐷𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 𝑖𝑛 𝐿𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑁𝑒𝑜𝑛.

“She had sleepy towns stitched into her veins and midnight air tangled in her lungs—half built from wildflower sunrises, half chasing city lights she hadn’t kissed yet.”

ㅤ ㅤㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ • • •

Anne-Laure Rouvaje came into the world on a crisp October morning in 2000, born in Saint-Étienne, a sleepy French town that feels dipped in beautiful old songs. As the only daughter of the Rouvaje family, she grew up kissed by quiet love and sweet rituals. Her father, Baptiste Étienne, turned dull corners of cities into green daydreams—an artist with muddy boots and eyes that saw beauty before it bloomed. Her mother, Marie-Noëlle, spun bedtime stories into published tales, her words always dancing somewhere between wonder and lullabies. Anne-Laure was all honeylight and whimsy, her laugh trailed through rooms, and she had that spark people noticed without trying. She found joy in wildflower meadows, in morning dew, in dandelions pretending to be stars. Her childhood was stitched together with picnics under blush skies, pebbles turned into kingdoms, and quiet moments filled with her mother’s tales and fresh-baked galettes.

But at six, the map of her world changed. Baptiste was invited to helm a major eco-urban project all the way in Singapore. A big move, bold and brimming with promise. And just like that, the family packed their familiar French life and stepped into a new chapter. Singapore was something else—lush, electric, and endlessly alive. For Anne, it felt like walking through a dream wrapped in city lights and monsoon winds. Home felt far, and her heart carried a sweet ache for it. She used to scribble notes in her sketchbook, sending little hellos to the room she left behind. But Anne had this quiet strength about her. She adjusted with grace, letting new colors into her palette.

As she grew, her love for storytelling deepened. Not just the soft fairytales she was raised on, but sharp clever writing that caught people’s attention. She adored the power of language, the way the right words could tug at someone’s heart or light up a whole brand. With her mother’s flair and her father’s eye, she started carving out her own creative rhythm.

She made it into NUS, choosing Communications and New Media, zeroing in on creative copywriting. Anne-Laure had a way of turning thoughts into gold—punchy, elegant, a little wistful. Whether she was dreaming up campaigns or scribbling late-night poems, her writing always shimmered. She became known for giving even the quietest messages their own kind of sparkle.

Still, no matter how far she wandered, France never drifted from her. She left voice notes for her parents filled with city rain and morning chatter from cafés. Her writing, even when polished and professional, carried a soft echo of wild lavender and quiet mornings.

Anne-Laure Rouvaje wears yesterday in her sleeves and carries tomorrow in her stride; one hand chasing what sparkles ahead, the other still tangled in sun-drenched memories. She moves through the noise with that easy kind of charm that doesn’t ask for attention, makes things that feel like late summer air, and somewhere between rooftop gold and her first patch of green, she’s sketching a life no one else could dream up quite the same.

[rouvaje]

"… I love you, and within you, I have discovered the cosmos I had long been seeking—the stars that guide my soul, the vast expanse where my heart feels at home, and the infinite wonder I never knew I was missing. You are my universe, the answer to every quiet longing, the place where my forever begins."

[rouvaje]

❛ … De mon cœur au tien,

' 𝖷𝖵, 𝖶͟𝖾͟𝖽͟. ㅤ ㅤ For three magical months, we’ve wandered through life hand in hand, creating memories that feel like treasures in the sands of time. This day dawns as the cherished reverie of three resplendent months woven into the symphony of our love, a moment I’ve been eagerly awaiting, though, truthfully, every single day with you feels like a page torn from the sweetest love story.

My steadfast protector, my dashing soulmate, my gentle-hearted confidant—you are the most patient soul I’ve ever encountered, a man with a thousand charming tricks up his sleeve to bring laughter to my lips and serenity to my heart. How could I not count myself among the stars for having you in this vast universe? No, we are not just bound by this world—we’re two souls stitched together across every universe, an unbreakable thread weaving us through time and space. If I could paint my feelings for you, the canvas would overflow with colors too beautiful for the human eye to perceive. If I could put my love into words, even the greatest poets would fall silent in awe. You are the air I breathe and the dream I never want to wake from.

I love you, and I truly do—with all my heart. You are my heart’s anchor, my soul’s north star, the one whose love dances through my life like a melody too beautiful for words, forever etched in my being and endless as time itself.

[rouvaje]

i. Un Mois d'Enchantements . . ❞

[rouvaje]

ii. Un Mois d'Enchantements . . ❞

❝ … It’s been a month since that unforgettable moment when you asked me to be yours, and I answered “yes.” I never imagined the 15th would hold such magic, but it has become a day marked by every beautiful memory of you, like a melody written just for us. It feels as if destiny chose this date to draw us closer, intertwining our paths in the most unexpected and perfect way.

I never expected we’d so seamlessly become part of each other’s everyday lives, like dawn and morning sky, filling the hours with laughter, warmth, and an unspoken harmony. Neither of us could have foreseen this steady rhythm—a quiet, shared presence that has turned each small moment into something I’ll always hold dear.

You have brought a light into my life this year, brightening places I’d thought were dim. After weathering storms I never wished to face, you've arrived like calm waters, wrapping me in a love that feels like home I hadn’t realized I longed for. Thank you for every glance, every word, and every act of care you’ve shared with me. All I hope for is that we can continue this path together, holding onto countless days like this, savoring each other in ways words can scarcely capture.

And just so you know, if this love of ours were a song, you’d probably be the chorus I can’t get out of my head—and I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, consider yourself warned: I’ll be around, probably humming your tune forever. I love you, and I really do.

Forever yours, Anne.