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Her name was Amara.
Short for Amarantham.
Ancient Greece meaning "eternally beautiful."

Her long, dark brown hair was always pulled up halfway with a black bow.
Except of course, on the days it was a white one.

Her skin was olive, eyes a beautiful hazel and lips that were always curved upward on the ends.

She wasn't loved by many, nor loved fiercely.

She couldn't stand the smell of meat and alcohol. Her toleration of the painful long period English class was nonexistent.

She loved the complexity of statues, the feel of a paintbrush in hand and the raw beauty of sketches in a notebook.
Probably because she was art herself.

She was so many things, but to him, she was Amarantham.
His eternal beauty.


hey guys, I have a habit of posting stories and not updating them for 600,000,000 years, but this is different. i got the idea from a dream and then expanded on it in a small café next to a chinese resturant. long story short, this is really important to me and i hope you guys enjoy it.

comments make me so happy and i appreciate everyone one of them, so if you comment you are incredibly dear to my heart.

stay absolutely lovely,
joy. x

amara :: irwinWhere stories live. Discover now