Frankly, dear reader, no matter how much I try to pour my feelings onto paper, and no matter how meticulously I craft chapters and align words, I cannot do justice to this feeling—a feeling that pulses within me whenever I draw near to describing what I write. It is a sensation that cannot be contained within lines or tamed by the tools of language.

Each of us has our dream girl, the one we paint in our imagination, a masterpiece of complete details brimming with life and longing. We treat her as if she were our eternal princess, the queen who holds the keys to our heart without contest. Each of us has a way of expressing this vision. Some close their eyes and sketch her solely in their imagination, while others bring her presence to life in conversations with the stars. As for me… I chose writing.

Yes, I write her into my words. I sketch her features with letters and weave her presence into stories. I write every detail about her: her smile, resembling the moonlight on a clear night; her eyes, narrating endless tales; and even those moments when she fills the air with the scent of spring. I write her because she is the only truth I possess amid the noise of this world.

She was the one… the one my imagination wove with meticulous care, as if I were creating a painting with colors unseen by the eyes except in dreams. She was born in September, the month belonging to brilliant minds and hearts that never cease to wonder. Yes, I chose her from that month specifically, perhaps because I wanted her to be intelligent, as they say about those born in September, capable of deciphering the world’s codes with unparalleled wisdom.

But her intelligence wasn’t just of the mind; it was also a sharpness for details. Her eyes perceived what others could not see. She listened to the silence between words and read the meanings hidden in glances. She paid attention to the small details that others overlooked, treasures of immeasurable worth to her.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

She was naturally emotional, feeling everything deeply. Her emotions were like a river, flowing endlessly, embracing everyone around her with sincere love and irresistible warmth. Perhaps that’s why I chose her favorite color to be deep green, for it reflected her beauty in a way words could never describe. Dark green, the color of natural grass that radiates life, just as she lights up my imagination.

Her beauty was natural and pure, as if she were born from the heart of nature itself. Her skin glowed with the scent of new beginnings, and her laughter… oh, that laughter. It resembled sunlight filtering through tree leaves, imparting a hidden warmth to the earth. Her laughter never leaves me; it haunts my dreams and waking moments, filling the voids in my soul with an unending echo.

I wanted a name for her, one unlike the names people speak daily—a name as unique as she is in my world. I named her Ilaf—a name inspired by my greatest passion: authorship. The name pulsed with what I love, carrying within it my passion for words and the magic of stories. And they say its meaning is “commitment,” as if she was created to bind my thoughts and mind to her alone, to none other.

But did you expect, dear reader, what happened next?

One day, I was in my small room, writing about her as I always did. I was depicting her in a garden, the breeze teasing her hair, and nature’s colors reflecting her beauty. I finished the chapter and dozed off in my chair, surrounded by thoughts and words waiting to come alive in the following chapters.

Amid the room’s quiet and my half-sleep state, I felt something strange. A warm voice drew near my ear, a voice so familiar as if it emerged from the depths of my imagination, gently saying:

“You must be tired today because of me. I know… but didn’t you intend to wake up?”

I jolted from my place. I opened my eyes quickly and looked around, but there was nothing. I told myself, “This must be a dream!” and tried to calm my racing heart. I hastily ate my breakfast and returned to sit before my papers once more, searching for the words that had eluded me.

But as I held the pen, I felt an unnatural presence surrounding me. That peculiar idea crept into my mind again. “It’s as if it were her voice… the voice in my imagination!” I whispered nervously to myself.

And then came the reply, clear as if it were emanating from within the room:

“Yes, it’s me.”

I froze in my place. I didn’t know how to move or what to say. Her voice… it was alive, real, as if my imagination itself had decided to speak to me. Before I could catch my breath, she appeared before me. I don’t know how it happened, but she was there, standing with every detail I had crafted in my mind.

I stared at her in astonishment, and as I was about to speak, she interrupted me with a calm smile and said:

“I am your fairy… the one you write about in your story.”