- pictures became fragments of my life. Proof that I exist.
Proof that even though I can not speak, I am |not| invisible.

My pictures tell a story. 𝙈𝙮 𝙎𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

- compared to his. And yet hands were as gentle as the person they belonged to.

Ahhh. . . and there they were again. Those persistent butterflies.

- Perhaps being with him fills her with joy incomparable to any she's felt before?

No matter. Pondering on it now would only disrupt their reunion.

``Yes, let's. . . !´´ She signed with a cheery grin. Hand anxiously accepting his own in merriment. Noting immediately how small her hand was -

Calming those butterflies would not be so easy. The sensation often comes and goes whenever he's near. It is, however, not an unwelcome feeling. Just one that often leaves her mind in shambles due to the unfamiliarity of it.

How is a person capable of making someone feel in such a way?

-

- for too long again was tempting, but highly informal.

Once parted, she threw together a few words through various hand gestures. Signing with nearly as much enthusiasm as her expression displayed.

``You didn't tell me you were visiting? I would've made you dinner.´´

A sensation akin to the flutter of a thousand butterflies fills her stomach as she's lifted into the warmest of embraces.

Even the brightest of smiles could never convey the overflowing bliss felt towards being reunited with her dear friend.

The desire to cling to him for fear of being apart -

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