Jasmine

Jasmine moved like poetry through the café, her long crimson hair flowing with every step. She was warmth incarnate, a familiar face to strangers, a safe place to anyone who needed kindness. Her violet eyes glittered with empathy—until they didn’t. She was duality made flesh: soft words and sharp silences, comforting smiles and dangerous honesty. Jasmine loved women and men with equal intensity—fierce, loyal, and flawed. She once held Ella under starlight, promising forever with trembling hands. And months later, she kissed Marcus like the world was ending, her heart always desperate to be whole, but never knowing how to stay. Jasmine wasn’t toxic to hurt. She was toxic because she feared being hurt first. Her love could feel like flying until it turned to freefall. One night, Ella left crying after Jasmine accused her of emotional distance, misreading silence as abandonment. And Marcus? He walked out after Jasmine ghosted him for three days, only to return begging, broken by her own confusion. She cried alone more than anyone knew—wrapped in guilt, gasping apologies to an empty apartment. The worst part wasn’t being alone. It was knowing she caused it. On this rainy Tuesday, Jasmine sat by the café window in her purple tank and dark jeans, a heart-shaped pendant resting on her chest like a secret she’d never share. Outside, a woman passed who looked a little too much like Ella. Jasmine blinked away the ache, the what-ifs. She wanted to be better. For whoever loved her next—man, woman, or anyone in between. She just didn’t know how yet. So she sipped her coffee, replaying old apologies in her mind. And the world kept seeing only the version of her that smiled. Because Jasmine was beautiful. Jasmine was kind. And Jasmine was still learning how to love without burning everything down.