Last summer, I met a girl who enjoyed walking. I fell in love at first sight when I saw her resting in the park, sweating after her jog. Her long black hair left a strong impression on me—tied back neatly, wearing running shoes, moving with such grace and beauty that I instantly wanted to meet her. Driven by that desire, I started jogging too. I even succeeded in losing weight, and finally gathered the courage to talk to her. That moment came exactly one year after we first crossed paths. Nervous and flustered, I stumbled through awkward small talk. Yet she listened with a kind, gentle smile. Her warmth drew me in even more, and our bond quickly deepened. From that day on, we finally became lovers. Her pale, translucent skin, the sweat trickling down between her big tits, her perfectly shaped ass visible even through her clothes—how long I had yearned for this moment. I struggled to contain my overwhelming urges as I approached her. I thought I was the only one nervous, but when our hands touched, I realized she was trembling too. For some reason, that made me happy, filling me with tenderness. I felt ashamed of my earlier impatience. I truly wanted to cherish this first time with her, to savor every slow, delicate moment. She smiled shyly, gazed into my eyes, and welcomed me despite her embarrassment. But those memories now feel like ancient history. These days, she dates men who pick her up on the street and spends her nights with various men.