fleureneth

[fleureneth]

Season Changes

I’m not sure if this is peace, but it feels closer than I’ve ever been.

Is this the quiet I’ve been aching for, the kind that settles in the spaces where his absence used to scream? I still check my phone, half-expecting his name to light up the screen, but the waiting doesn’t claw at me like it once did. His texts, when they come, are just words now: Sparse, fleeting, not the lifelines I used to cling to. I don’t feel the same fire in my chest when they’re late or never arrive. The anger has dulled, softened into something I can carry without breaking.

Will I no longer be the warmth to his winter?

But I don’t want to vanish entirely. I hope I can still be his wind, passing through his every season. A gentle gust in spring, a restless breeze in summer, a whisper in autumn, a chill in winter. Not constant, not clinging, but there; a reminder that I exist, that I was here, even if I’m no longer his.

Well, I was never his.

I still glance over my shoulder sometimes, wondering if he feels the absence of my warmth. But I don’t linger there. The yearning is softer now, a quiet hum instead of a roar. I’m letting him go, piece by piece, and finding myself in the spaces he used to fill.

I hope my leaving carves a small, jagged hole somewhere in your heart. It’s cruel, I know, to wish you feel the weight of my absence. I don’t want you to ache forever. I’m not that heartless. But I hope the echo of me stays, a faint reminder of what could have been if you’d chosen to see me clearly. I hope it teaches you something, softens the edges of your guarded heart. When the next person comes, I hope you love them fiercely, without hesitation. I hope you give them the certainty I craved, the kind that doesn’t leave them piecing together your silence like a puzzle with missing parts. I hope you don’t let them wander in the haze of your half-meant words, the way I did.

[fleureneth]

Autumn Fades

I pray this is where the story closes.

I tried to show you what love could feel like; to be your safe haven, your soft landing after a grueling day, the one who holds you close. I thought I could be that for you. I fell for you first, I believe, and I was the one who suggested we take it slow, get to know each other. You’re not the type to rush into things, and I respect that. But deep down, I wanted more. I wanted to call you mine, to share you with the world, to let everyone see the light you bring.

But now, a quiet fear gnaws at me. My gut whispers that you don’t feel the same. What if your kindness, your warmth, isn’t love but pity? What if you said yes to this chance not because you wanted it, but because you didn’t know how to say no? The thought alone unravels me.

So, I slipped away. I told you I’d be busy; such a flimsy excuse, I know, but it was all I could muster. I haven’t blocked you; I’ve just faded into the background, like a shadow you barely notice. You reached out once, and that deepened my doubt. Was it guilt? An obligation to check in? It stings to think it might be.

Let me keep running. Call me a coward, a fool, the antagonist in your story; I’ll carry those names if it means I can breathe again. Away from you, I feel unburdened, yet my heart still yearns for your gaze. You linger in my thoughts, an endless echo I can’t silence. Why do you cling so tightly to my soul?

Loving you breaks me, but losing you rips me in two.

[fleureneth]

And... I am Still Here

A bone-deep exhaustion clings to me, heavy as wet soil after a storm.

It’s like I’m caught in that ‘disappointed but not surprised’ ache. It’s the kind of feeling that settles in when you’ve watched the same story unfold too many times, knowing the final scene will leave you bruised, yet unable to look away.

For a fleeting moment, I soared. Perhaps his laughter, his fleeting glances, or the way his hand brushed mine like a secret shared. Perhaps when our eyes locked, a silent conversation unfolds in the space between us. Then, his lips met mine. His mouth moved against mine with a quiet intensity; soft at first, then growing bolder, as if he were tracing the contours of my soul. One hand rested gently on my waist, fingers pressing just enough to feel like a claim, a grounding warmth that sent shivers through me.

His words and his silences knot together, a puzzle I can’t solve. Why do I linger, chasing the mirage of his full, unguarded love, when all he offers are threads of hope woven with doubt?

But when he let go, I fell. The fall was brief, the landing brutal.

Was I the fool? No, am I foolish? I want to fold him into my arms; to offer a hug so tight it could mend the cracks in us both. I want to be his haven, the firelight he returns to, the one who makes him feel safe enough to stay. But wanting isn’t enough, and I know it.

I wait for autumn’s echo, a whisper of what we were, or what we could be. I picture him turning back, stepping through a carpet of fallen leaves, his voice low with the apology I’ve scripted in my dreams. But… just like the other seasons, autumns come and go, and the echo never arrives.

Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe I always will be.

[fleureneth]

To Love Loudly

I have never loved someone quietly.

For me, love was never a fleeting glance from afar. To fall in love, or be in love wasn’t scrawled on my bingo card. I used to flee when someone’s affection brushed too close; my heart racing from fear, not flutters.

Then he arrived.

Like a winter storm I couldn’t ignore, with eyes that held me still. Despite the mixed signals; the kiss he sparked, the fleeting warmth he dangled then withdrew… I wanted to be his fire, to melt his ice, to cradle him in the tender bloom of spring.

For once, I didn’t want to run.

Loving him loudly was a risk I chose to embrace. His warmth flickered, a candle snuffed out too soon, leaving me to wonder if I was ever enough. If my silence was what he craved from the start, I’ll give it to him. I’ll gather my love, my hopes, and quietly, silently, leave.

Maybe I wasn’t enough. And yet, I dared.

[fleureneth]

The Starting Rhythm

The first time I met Alaric, it felt like meeting a new friend. Ryan’s description was spot-on: tall and looking a bit distant until his smile warmed things up. We started at a cozy tea shop, his favorite, where the air was sweet with the creamy aroma of milk tea and the cups warmed our hands.

For nearly a week, our schedules aligned perfectly. Shenzhen became our playground. He showed me hidden corners of the city, and one day, he took me to his studio; a creative haven where he wrestled with lyrics and melodies, transforming ideas into music. Watching him work felt familiar, like hearing a song you’ve known forever but never truly appreciated until now.

“I like you,” he said, right after I handed it to him. I froze, blinking rapidly, my brain scrambling to process. His gaze softened, a gentle smile breaking through. I stepped back, my hands retreating, but he caught them fast. His touch was gentle, as if he’d been listening to every word I’d shared over the past days.

The second week arrived, and my trip was nearing its end. That evening, Alaric dropped me off as usual, but I asked him to come up. I wanted to give him something: A small gift, a thank-you for his time and warmth.

“You don’t have to run,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I won’t chase you. Just… stay.”

[fleureneth]

Her,

The One Hoping for Serenity.

Sereneth Fleur, born September 27, 2000, in Birmingham, was named by her father for a life of serenity. A hope that shaped her journey with both comfort and trials. The youngest of three and only daughter, she was doted on, her father gifting her books that sparked her love for storytelling. She filled journals with vivid tales and raw reflections, finding refuge in words.

At sixteen, her dualogy short stories, The Year I Lost and The Year I Found, won a local contest, securing a scholarship to study literature at the University of Manchester. In her final year, she explored scriptwriting for a student film, revealing a talent for crafting lively dialogue. Post-graduation, she returned to Birmingham, juggling freelance writing and scriptwriting for independent filmmakers. Her debut novel, I and Almost, published at twenty-three, wove a tender story of a woman feeling adrift, as if fate conspired against her dreams. Praised for its evocative imagery and themes of longing and resilience, it found modest sales but critical acclaim. Her script for the short film Still Waiting on Summer blended comedy and heart, earning nods at regional festivals.

Raised in a family rich with love, Sereneth never sought romance in university. But a push from her publisher for a romance novel changed that. A friend lured her to Shenzhen, where she met him—a man scarred by past wounds. Drawn to his guarded heart, she felt compelled to show him love’s warmth, only to find herself tangled in the ache of his mixed signals. Her story, ripe for a novel, brims with raw emotion. Will she write it? Given her history of turning pain into art, she likely will: Pouring her heartbreak and hope into pages that could become her most intimate work yet.

[fleureneth]

Her Works.

[fleureneth]

DISCLAIMER!

The contents written in this account are entirely fictional and created solely to support Sereneth Fleur’s journey with TheEchoverie. Any resemblance to actual names, places, or events is purely coincidental and unintentional. I am always open to conversations; especially if you’d like to brainstorm a plot together! Feel free to DM me anytime (whether it’s for suggestions, feedback, or even if something I said came across the wrong way). I am here and happy to listen.