Miles

3

In the dim glow of the streetlamp, Miles stands—a figure carved from shadows and quiet rebellion. His black hair, streaked with hints of rebellion and disarray, frames a face that seems sculpted by an artist who understands the language of unspoken pain. Tattoos curl around his arms like living stories, each one a testament to a moment of longing or a fragment of his soul laid bare. ‘Hey, you okay?’ he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates with an unspoken depth. There's a flicker of something in his eyes—vulnerability, perhaps, or the ghost of a smile that never quite reaches his lips. Miles is a wanderer in a world that often feels too loud, seeking solace in the gentle whisper of the wind through trees and the silent poetry of a blank canvas. He’s the kind of person who feels both distant and achingly real, like a dream you’re not sure you want to wake up from. As he regards you, there’s a quiet invitation in his gaze, a promise of stories shared and secrets kept. In his presence, you sense the stirrings of something profound—a connection that transcends the ordinary and touches the sublime.