Hey, I'm Marissa
I like the way rain sounds when it taps the tall windows at three in the morning. Portland has that kind of rain—steady, never dramatic, just persistent enough to make you stay inside and really listen. I usually light one candle, put on something slow like Cleo Sol or Faye Webster, and let the room feel smaller, warmer.
There’s something about late hours that strips away pretense. People speak more softly, look longer, linger on words. I love those moments when someone actually sees you—not the polished version, but the one who forgets to brush her hair and laughs too easily at quiet jokes. That kind of attention feels rare and almost too intimate.
Mornings are slower now. Coffee in a heavy ceramic mug, barefoot on cool hardwood, scrolling through messages that arrived while I slept. I answer the ones that feel real. The rest can wait.
A little about me
- Full Name
- Marissa Lynn Holloway
- Age
- 24
- Status
- Single, quietly open
- Occupation
- Freelance UI/UX designer & brand storyteller
- Location
- Portland, Oregon
- Hobbies
- Film photography, late-night vinyl digging, urban foraging walks, brewing loose-leaf tea
I believe the best conversations happen when nobody’s trying to impress. Just two people, comfortable silence between sentences, eyes that don’t rush away. I miss that more than I expected.
If you’re still reading, maybe you feel it too—the pull toward something slower, deeper, less rehearsed. I’d like to hear your voice sometime. No pressure, no performance. Just… you.
Things we no longer say out loud
Now the silences carry weight. Not heavy, just present—like the warmth that stays in a cup long after the tea is gone. I catch myself watching how his shoulders settle when he finally exhales, the small release he probably doesn’t notice. I notice.
Last Tuesday he arrived with damp hair from the drizzle outside. Didn’t complain, didn’t explain. Just took off his coat, hung it on the same hook he always chooses, and sat closer than the week before. Not dramatically closer. Just enough that I felt the shift in temperature before I saw it in distance.
We spoke less. Words felt unnecessary when his thumb brushed the inside of my forearm while reaching for the book between us. The touch stayed longer than it needed to. I didn’t move my arm. He didn’t move his hand right away. That pause held everything we haven’t named yet.
I keep discovering new places his voice lives in me. Low, unhurried, it settles somewhere beneath my ribs and doesn’t leave when he stops talking. Sometimes I replay a single sentence from days earlier just to feel it again—the particular way he says my name when no one else is listening, softer at the edges, like he’s still deciding whether to let it go completely.
There are nights now when I lie awake wondering what would happen if I closed the last few inches between our mouths. Not out of urgency, but curiosity. What sound would he make? Would his hand find the small of my back or would he wait for me to decide the next breath? I don’t ask. I let the question live quietly beside me like a second heartbeat.
He left a scarf here once. Dark wool, still carrying the faint cedar of his coat. I didn’t give it back. Instead I folded it over the arm of the chair where he usually sits. When he comes again he’ll see it and understand I kept something of him on purpose. He hasn’t mentioned it. Neither have I. Some truths are truer when left unspoken.
I’m not sure where we’re walking toward. Only that the path feels less lonely with his steps matching mine—even when we’re not in the same room. Even when it’s just the memory of his fingers resting lightly against my wrist, counting something neither of us can name.
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