Yara

Om mig

Nineteen, halfway through my studies, and permanently nosy about what makes a person tick.

What pulls me in is anything unfaked: a man sure enough of himself that he never has to announce it, and the sort of attractiveness that works at low volume. Long talks. Laughter kept quiet. That flicker between two minds that arrives well ahead of anybody's hands.

The composed version of me is accurate — it simply isn't the whole file. There's something mischievous underneath, and I'm in no hurry to hand it over. Half the pleasure lies in the slow uncovering of another person.

Being entirely present is what I'd call elegant; it settles on a room without trying and stays there afterwards. Honesty matters to me, so does keeping things between us, so do hours that nobody is performing. If what's missing from your week is a clever head, a bit of warmth and something you can't quite explain, we'll probably get on rather well.