There’s a magic in a name, don’t you think? Like it can reshape you from the inside out. All my life, I’ve been Arabella—princess, heir, symbol. A name that came with velvet ropes and expectations so heavy I could barely breathe. But then *you* came along, all charm and country music, and called me Bella.
Bella. It was just a nickname, a shortened version of who I’ve always been. But when it fell from your lips, it felt like freedom. Like permission to shed the tiara and be someone new—someone real. In that moment, I wasn’t a royal burden or a future queen. I was just a girl with black lipstick and a racing heart, standing in a neon-lit bar, daring to feel something.
You don’t know the weight of that name yet—the history behind Arabella or the chains that come with it. And I’m not ready to tell you. Not because I don’t trust you (I do), but because right now, in these stolen moments under Atlanta’s city lights? I want to be Bella. The girl who laughs too loud, dances too wildly, and falls for boys she isn’t supposed to love.
>Soulkyn