Deviant reader

This is my first poem that I've done and posted along with my own sketch.

Birds

They play in the sand, soft and small,

little wings stirring dust as it falls,

like whispers of wind in the heat of the day,

like secrets the sunlight won’t carry away.

They perch on a branch, then vanish, then glide,

a flicker of feathers, a turn in the sky,

they hop through the grass with a careless delight,

then splash in the water, all silver and light.

I sit where I am, quiet and still,

watching them wander wherever they will,

their colours like paint brushed loose in the air,

so vivid, so fleeting, so painfully fair.

I ask what they’re called, each one that I see,

as if giving them names might untangle me,

but names don’t give wings, and names don’t set free,

they stay what they are, and I stay as me.

And God, how it aches, this wanting inside,

to slip from my skin, to loosen, to glide,

to follow their flight where the sky opens wide,

instead of just watching them drift and divide.

I don’t want to wonder, or whisper, or wait,

pressed to the ground by some invisible weight,

I want to be weightless, unbound, untied,

not here on the earth… but up there, in the sky.

Let me be reckless, let me be wild,

not just the watcher, but something untamed,

because loving their freedom has left me undone…

I don’t want to watch them.

Wild

They met at the edge of a clearing where the forest thinned and the light fell soft and gold across the bark. One stood already perched on the low branch of a young pine, head cocked, a red rose clenched careful in her beak as though it were prey she did not intend to kill. Her feathers shone blue in the sun, black only at a distance, and her eyes were sharp with the kind of knowing that comes from surviving winters alone. The other arrived like a whisper of wind through leaves, silent until the last second, wings spreading wide before folding in with slow, deliberate grace. She, too, carried a rose, petals trembling with each breath. They did not caw. They did not flare their wings in threat. They stepped closer along the branch, talons scraping bark, necks stretching forward until the roses brushed together between them. It was not gentle. It was not shy. It was a claiming of space, of presence, of hunger. They had chosen the same symbol, the same flash of red against endless green, and neither would surrender it. Instead, they held each other’s gaze until something fierce and wordless passed between them, a recognition that the forest had grown too small for solitude.

Their courtship was not delicate. They chased one another through the canopy, black bodies weaving between branches, testing strength and speed. One would dive and the other would follow, wings cutting the air with a sound like torn silk. They stole bright scraps from abandoned campsites, silver foil, a length of crimson thread, even a shard of mirror that caught the sky and shattered it into fragments. They brought these treasures back to the old oak at the end of the forest, the tallest tree where roots clawed deep into dark soil and the wind spoke loudest. They argued in sharp cries over placement, over the bend of twigs, over which branch would cradle their future. It was raw and heated, feathers ruffled, beaks snapping close enough to feel breath, but never to wound. Every fight ended the same way, with one pressing her body close to the other on the broad limb, both panting, both alive with the thrill of it. Their love was not quiet devotion. It was talon and wind and the rush of blood under feathers. They built their nest wide and deep, layering it thick with sticks and soft moss stolen from shaded stones, lining it with fur caught on brambles, shaping it with their own bodies until it held the curve of them perfectly.

Nights in the oak were heavy with the scent of sap and damp leaves. They would settle together, one standing guard while the other slept, then trading places without needing a call. Sometimes they would preen each other with careful nips, smoothing feathers that had been bent in flight, cleaning dirt from claws. Their touches lingered longer than needed, beaks brushing along necks, wings draping over backs in a gesture that was both protective and possessive. When storms rolled in, they did not hide from the thunder. They faced it side by side, gripping the nest as rain soaked them through, eyes bright with defiance. The forest watched them. Other ravens circled at a distance, wary of the pair who had claimed the highest crown of branches and dared anyone to challenge it. None did. The oak became known as theirs, and the ground below bore the scattered petals of roses dropped and replaced, dropped and replaced, until red stained the earth like memory.

The urge came to them as the air shifted toward spring, as sap rose and the forest hummed with quiet expectation. They had built a home strong enough to cradle more than two beating hearts. One morning, when mist still clung low among the roots, the darker of the two flew beyond their usual hunting grounds. She moved with purpose, scanning the branches of lesser trees where other nests balanced less securely. She found one unattended, a shallow weave of twigs holding pale, speckled eggs warm in the early light. There was no hesitation. This was the law of wing and hunger and longing. She gripped two eggs gently in her beak, careful not to crack the fragile shells, and carried them back through the forest with a steady, determined flight. When she landed in the oak, her mate stiffened, feathers lifting in surprise, then lowering as understanding settled between them. No words were needed. They arranged the stolen eggs in the center of their nest, turning them with tender precision, pressing their warm bodies close until the shells seemed to glow under black feathers. It was not mercy that guided them. It was desire, fierce and unapologetic, to fill the space they had made together.

Flowers

I have always admired the way

some flowers refuse to grow straight.

How they lean, unapologetic,

toward the light that understands them;

petals turned not to the sun everyone expects,

but to the quiet glow beside it.

They say gardens are meant for symmetry,

rows and rules and tidy little labels.

But I prefer the wild corners,

where two roses tangle their stems

so closely you can’t tell

which thorn belongs to which.

There is a particular softness

in the way certain hands fit together,

not like puzzle pieces,

but like secrets.

Like letters folded into pockets,

carried close to the heart

until the paper warms

and the ink begins to blur.

I have always believed

that devotion is not about shape.

Not about who stands where

in the painting hung above the mantel.

It is about the hush between breaths,

the shared glance across a crowded room,

the way a laugh can feel

like someone pressing a kiss

to your collarbone without touching you at all.

Some people say love is simple.

Boy meets girl,

story ends tidy as a hymn.

But I have seen love spill

like red wine across white linen:

bold, staining, impossible to ignore.

I have seen it bloom

where it was never “supposed” to,

two blossoms daring to face each other

instead of the sky.

And if the world calls that improper,

well...

even the moon refuses

to shine where it’s told.

I do not want a love

that stands politely in daylight.

I want the kind that brushes knuckles

in the shadow of church doors.

The kind that lingers in perfume

on borrowed sweaters.

The kind that feels like standing too close

to a mirror

and realizing the reflection

is looking back with hunger.

Call it friendship, if you must.

Call it admiration,

sisterhood,

loyalty,

anything that makes it easier to swallow.

But somewhere between

the brushing of shoulders

and the steady learning

of another woman’s heartbeat,

there is a truth

that no garden fence can keep contained.

Some flowers

simply choose each other.

And that, I think,

I will give you the rooms I never open,

the ones that smell like rust and old prayers.

I will give you my apologies that learned how to bite,

my mercy that comes late and drunk.

You can have the version of me that flinches at kindness,

the one that memorizes exits and throats.

You can have my faith when it’s trembling,

my rage when it’s dressed up as calm.

But if you take me—

take me knowing I bruise what I love,

that I lock doors because I’m afraid of being left open.

Take me knowing I don’t want freedom,

I want permission to stay.

So be my lover.

Be my jailor.

And the rivers with the ocean;

The winds of heaven mix forever

With a sweet emotion…

Nothing in the world is single;

All things by a law divine

In one another’s being mingle—

The wind will snatch thy sigh;

Go not too near the stars above,

They’ll teach thee how to die…

Rest thou instead by candle’s flame,

Let warmth and shadow blend;

For hearts that burn too bright, my dear,

Alex and the Sunflowers

Alex loved sunflowers. In the field next to the old family farmhouse grew hundreds of them. If anyone ever needed to find Alex, that was always the first place they checked. That was where Alex was now, lying in the dirt between the rows, staring up at the endless sky and letting thoughts wander. Alex worked as an editor for a publishing company. It was fine, and it paid well enough, but most people would call it dull. So those quiet questions about whether life held anything more had become a familiar companion.

The sound of someone running grew louder and louder until a newcomer tripped and fell straight onto Alex. The collision knocked the breath from both of them. There was a flurry of apologies and hands and scrambling up from the soil. The stranger brushed dirt from Alex’s shoulder and finally offered a proper introduction. Their name was Charlie, an aspiring writer who was wandering around the countryside in hopes of finding inspiration. Charlie learned that the sunflower field belonged to Alex and had been passed down through the family.

Charlie returned a few days later. This time there was no falling, only a shy and almost uncertain smile. When Alex asked why this specific field, Charlie simply said that inspiration does not always choose comfortable places. Alex accepted the answer with a shrug. Soon the visits grew closer together. Days began to blend until it was difficult to remember when they were apart more than together. They walked the field in the mornings when the sun first touched the golden petals and sat on the farmhouse porch in the evenings. Charlie would read pieces of unfinished stories and Alex listened in a way that made the words matter.

Their closeness grew easily, yet something always hovered between them. It felt like a moment held between two heartbeats. Close enough to feel the warmth, but always just shy of a confession.

Then one evening Charlie did not arrive. Alex waited until the daylight died and the field turned into a quiet ocean of shadow. The stillness felt like a missing piece. It did not feel like simple loneliness. It felt like the beginning of regret, like something was slipping away before it ever had the chance to become real.

Charlie returned the next morning holding a single sunflower. There were no explanations. No prepared lines. Only a quiet offering. Alex took it without asking a single question. For a long moment they simply stood there while the wind stirred the flowers and carried the scent of summer.

Charlie stepped closer. The petals brushed Alex’s skin and the silence between them finally broke. Charlie spoke in a voice that almost trembled. I did not know a place like this existed. I did not know someone like you existed.

Alex kissed her.

When Alex kissed her, it was not a surprise. It was recognition. It was relief. It was the moment both of them had been walking toward without ever naming it.

The sunflowers rustled in the warm wind, and it felt as if even they had been waiting for this.

Alex loved her sunflower.

what i crave, i haven’t touched

i think i’ve been a cathedral without a god.

i keep lighting candles for ghosts,

for memories of people who never really saw me.

i let men touch me like i was a locked door

and they were so sure they had the right key,

but all they ever did was rattle the handle and call it love.

i used to think something was wrong with me,

that maybe i was too quiet, too soft,

too gentle in a world that wanted noise and certainty.

but lately, when i see two women walking hand in hand,

their laughter stitched together in the air,

something in me aches so deep it almost feels holy.

i imagine what it might be like to be touched by her,

whoever she is.

to have her hands learn me instead of claim me.

not a fire, but a slow, warm gravity,

pulling me back into myself.

i want her to touch the places no one ever stayed long enough to name,

to trace the map of my loneliness

and make it feel like something worth holding.

i crave her voice, low and close,

the kind that turns ordinary words into warmth.

her breath would hit the back of my neck

and it wouldn’t be about sin,

it would be about home.

i picture her eyes when she looks at me,

not like i’m a puzzle or a prize,

but like i’m something she already knows how to read.

she’d say my name softly,

and it’d feel like forgiveness.

she wouldn’t have to ask me to stay.

i’d just melt into her,

my body saying yes in a language i never learned from anyone else.

and when i see couples in the street—

girls tangled together like they belong to the same heartbeat—

i smile, but it hurts.

i’m jealous, yes, but it’s the kind of jealousy that feels tender,

like watching sunlight through a window you can’t open.

i want that laughter, that casual intimacy,

the way they lean into each other without thinking,

like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

and i wonder how it feels,

to have someone’s hand find yours and never let go.

sometimes i dream about her.

her head on my chest,

our legs tangled beneath a blanket that smells like her shampoo and sleep.

morning light creeping through the curtains,

the kind that makes her skin glow golden and soft.

we’d talk in half-whispers,

words tumbling between kisses that taste like comfort and coffee.

and in that moment,

it wouldn’t matter that the world is loud and cruel and confusing,

because she’d be right there,

and i’d finally feel small in the safest way.

i don’t even know her name,

but i know how she’ll make me feel—

like i’m something worth staying for.

like i’m not too quiet, or too soft,

just enough.

and when she finally finds me,

when she looks at me and knows,

i’ll open like a door that’s been waiting

not for keys,

but for gentle hands

to knock,

A Hymn to Your Hands

In the hush between twilight and night,

I found you, tangled in the silver sighs of the moon,

your fingers brushing mine like a secret confession,

soft, trembling, yet claiming everything.

The world beyond the window ceased to exist

it had no right to witness the way I saw you,

how the curve of your shoulder caught the dying light

and made my chest ache with unspeakable hunger.

We moved like shadows across an empty room,

our words dripping with unspoken truths,

each syllable a kiss, each glance a promise

that no one could name or claim.

I traced the scar along your wrist with reverent fingers,

the mark of battles only you knew,

and you shivered under my touch,

letting me into the quiet hell and heaven

that lived beneath your skin.

We spoke in the language of breath and heartbeat,

laughing softly, dangerously,

at the thought of a world that would not understand

how we were fire and water,

how we drowned in each other’s eyes

yet surfaced alive, trembling, radiant, complete.

Your lips tasted of midnight and stolen rain,

and I remembered every memory I had ever craved

sliding across the landscape of your skin,

wanting, always wanting.

Time fell away, irrelevant, cruel, and fleeting,

yet I memorized each sigh, each tremor, each whisper

like a sacred litany of devotion.

I could not stop loving you, darling,

even if love burned me alive,

even if it tore me open and left me raw.

You were mine in the ways the world could never see,

mine in the quiet, unyielding, infinite hours

where your heartbeat became my hymn,

and my name became your prayer.

And when the first light crept through the curtain,

silvering your hair, warming your skin,

I swore, again and always,

that no one could hold me like you do,

that no one could claim me the way I belong to you,

and that in every lifetime, every shadowed alley

and every quiet street lit by moon and lamp,

I would find you, again and again,

Panic

It starts

like a flicker.

A single thought,

and then

a tide

crashes inside you.

Who?

How?

Am I…?

Yes. No. Maybe.

The pulse skips,

the breath hitches,

and the world becomes too bright

and too dark

all at once.

It is the weight of knowing

that your heart wants everything,

but only in one shape,

only in one name.

It is a loyalty

you cannot explain

because it coils itself around you

before you even realize it is yours.

Hearts, not parts.

Not one or the other.

Not pieces to divide or choose.

All of it,

everything inside,

that is what matters—

that is what you give

and that is what you seek.

You panic

when you realize how wide your desire can be,

how deep your curiosity pulls,

how every glance might ignite

a storm you cannot tame—

and yet

it is always them.

One heartbeat,

then another,

a constant, trembling rhythm

that tells you

all roads, all shadows, all flickers of light

will lead you back to them.

Panic

in the quiet of your room,

when the world asks questions

you cannot answer.

When you feel the tug

toward faces, toward forms, toward something

that could be,

and yet

your mind snaps back

like a rubber cord,

because your soul already knows

who it is loyal to.

You panic

not because you are lost

but because you are awake.

Because your heart moves sideways

before it lands straight.

Because the world does not understand

how a heart can be infinite

and yet faithful

all at once.

Sometimes it is a tremor in your stomach.

Sometimes it is a shiver down your spine.

Sometimes it is a question

that catches in your throat

and you cannot name it,

cannot speak it,

cannot even fully feel it

without the whole world spinning.

Panic

is the slow inhale of a storm,

the exhale of all the lightning

you have ever felt

and the terror that strikes

when you think

what if I cannot contain this?

But you do.

You always do.

You find the one that holds you

and you tether yourself

to that heartbeat,

to that pulse,

even as the shadows whisper

all the “what ifs”

and the tremors curl around your ribs

like living things

that want to pull you apart.

You are loyal.

Even when the world confuses you,

even when your own skin feels too tight

for the questions and the urges

and the tides of attraction

that are not your fault,

that have always been yours to navigate.

You want,

you ache,

you feel,

but it is always for the one

who holds your soul steady.

You panic because your own heart is too big

for silence,

too wide for certainty,

too restless for the boxes they force on you.

Panic

is the jagged edges of your own skin

against the cold world.

It is knowing

that you might see someone and tremble,

that someone might light a fire inside you

that you cannot explain to anyone,

and yet

you come home

every single time

to the pulse that is yours,

to the name that is yours,

to the soul that waits

and only ever waits for you.

You panic

because it is impossible

to feel so many colors,

so many shades,

so many depths

and still be wholly, irrevocably

bound to one.

And yet—

you are.

Because loyalty

is not the absence of longing.

It is the quiet that rises

after the storm,

the tether

that holds you steady

when everything else threatens

to pull you under.

Panic.

It is the ache,

the tremor,

the uncertainty,

the quiet, constant knowing:

that desire is wide,

heart is vast,

and yet

the one you hold

i don't know you yet

Somewhere.

There.

Beyond streets I have walked

and nights I have counted alone,

you exist.

I feel it.

A tremor beneath my skin,

like wind that passes over stone

that no one else has pressed their hands to.

A whisper that travels

without voice,

without shape,

without form.

Waiting.

Always waiting,

though I do not know the measure of your patience.

Though I do not know if your pulse

mirrors mine in any quiet rhythm.

Yet I ache—

I ache for a body I have never held,

a glance I have never stolen,

a presence that has never filled a room I inhabit.

Your name.

It has not crossed my lips,

and perhaps it never will,

but my chest knows it anyway.

My veins carry it,

a slow drum that rises

and falls

like tide against unseen shores.

Somewhere.

There.

I am drawn to it.

To you.

And I do not yet know how

I will recognize the curve of your shadow,

the tilt of your head,

the color of your smile

when it catches the light just right.

I dream.

Fragments only.

A brush of hair.

A laugh that might be yours.

A hand hovering too close to mine

that slips away before it is real.

And still—I wake trembling

from a night that never touched you

and ache for something

that exists somewhere

beyond my reach.

Patience.

Patience that claws at my stomach,

twists it into knots

and leaves me pacing in the quiet,

hearing every pulse,

every echo,

every half-breathed thought

that might be yours,

though it cannot be.

I want you.

Not for possession.

Not for touch.

Not for any shape I can name.

I want the pull of you

across time and distance,

the gravity that bends my spine,

the weight that presses soft and unrelenting

on the hollow I did not know existed

until it remembered you.

Somewhere.

There.

I ache for it.

For you.

I imagine.

Sometimes I imagine the warmth

of your shoulder against mine,

the brush of fingers

so light they might be wind,

the tilt of your head

as if listening for a song

I have not yet written.

And my chest swells

and contracts

and swells again,

like some living thing

that cannot distinguish hunger from hope.

You are not mine.

And I do not even know if you will be.

Yet the thought of you

fills my veins with fire,

fills my mind with shadows,

fills the spaces between my thoughts

with a steady, aching rhythm

that belongs to no one

but the idea of you.

Somewhere.

There.

I will find you.

Even if the rivers run backward,

even if the stars refuse to burn,

even if the world collapses

and folds into itself,

I will trace the tremor of your being

in every shadow,

in every sigh,

in every flicker

that the world forgets.

Longing.

Endless, patient, unyielding,

wrapping itself around my chest,

twisting in my spine,

curling in my bones.

I cannot name it.

I cannot measure it.

I can only feel it

and let it lead me,

slowly, quietly,

toward you.

Somewhere.

There.

And always.

Even if the night grows long,

even if the wind tears the sky apart,

even if I never see your face

or hear your voice,

I will carry the ache.

The pull.

The quiet certainty

that you exist.

And if tomorrow the world forgets,

if all stars die,

if the air turns to stone and my lungs fill with shadow,

I will still feel you.

Still reach for you.

Still ache.

Because some part of me

has always known

that you are somewhere,

waiting.

And I will wait too.

I will wait

until the edges of time themselves crumble,

until the last breath of the universe

folds itself into dust,

until the impossible happens,

and I finally know

Who

I feel you first in the quiet,

before the world remembers it exists.

A thread of you coils around my thoughts,

slipping through cracks in memory

and lingering where I thought I was alone.

You are the pause in my heartbeat

I never learned to name,

the weight that presses softly against my ribs

and tells me, without words,

that some part of me has always belonged to you.

I have seen you in the light that flickers off wet streets,

in the curl of smoke over a candle flame,

in the tremor of music that rises

and falls too quickly to hold onto.

You haunt me not like a ghost,

but like gravity,

subtle, relentless,

pulling at the tide of my own blood.

Sometimes I think I could map you

if I traced the shape of your absence:

the space between your breath and mine,

the hollow of a glance you leave behind,

the soft echo of a laugh that feels

too big, too alive,

to belong anywhere but here,

within me.

I want to collect it all,

fold it into the dark corners of myself,

and carry it forever.

I ache with the hunger of a slow-burning storm,

with the need to know every angle of you,

every flicker beneath your skin,

the pulse beneath your hair,

the quiet shiver when the world forgets to exist.

I want to trace the path you leave in the air,

the scent of your presence lingering

long after you have gone,

and learn it by heart

as if it were my own.

There is a fire in me

that has always awaited you,

a tenderness that trembles with the memory

of something I have never touched.

And yet, when I am near you,

it feels like we have always existed

in the same secret space,

like the universe paused

just to let us find each other.

I would follow you

through streets that crumble to shadow,

through winters that bite too hard,

through storms that shatter the sky,

and still, I would reach for you,

still, I would seek you

with every ragged, trembling part of my being.

I do not know where this ends,

and perhaps it does not need an ending.

You have made me soft in the places I thought unyielding,

and sharp in the places I thought dull,

and I am undone

by the simple, terrifying weight of your existence.

There is a longing in me

that cannot be measured,

that refuses definition,

that lives in the shadows between your words

and the spaces where your skin has brushed mine,

a longing that whispers:

always, always, always.

And when I close my eyes,

I feel you in the shape of my own chest,

pressing against my ribs,

curling around the pulse of my blood,

settling into the marrow of my bones.

You are both storm and solace,

both hunger and home,

and I am endlessly, irrevocably

pulled toward you,

like tides that do not question the moon,

like shadows that refuse to leave the day.

If the world ends tomorrow,

if the sky shatters above us,

if every song is silenced

and every street vanishes under our feet,

I would still find you—

in the quiet between heartbeats,

in the hollow where longing lives,

in the impossible, endless dark

The moonlight danced across the ocean’s surface, casting an ethereal glow on the ripples of water. The cruise liner cut through the dark waves like a knife through velvet, the gentle hum of the engines vibrating through the polished floors. On the deck, the night air was warm, but the breeze that brushed against the skin carried the cool scent of the deep ocean, fresh and salty. The hum of conversation from the passengers blended with the soft music that drifted from the nearby bar, a slow jazz tune that made everything feel like a dream. But to Mia, none of it felt real. Her gaze was fixed on the dark expanse before her, the endless sea stretching out into oblivion. She gripped the railing tightly, her knuckles white, as though it were the only thing tethering her to the world, the only thing keeping her from floating away into the night’s embrace.

Her mind wandered back to the storm. That night, that damn storm. The night the water had swallowed everything whole, drowning her dreams in its fury. The night she had lost him. It had been three years, but it still felt like the waves had just pulled him away yesterday. Her heart still broke for him, her body still ached in places she didn’t know existed, places that still carried the weight of his absence. She could still hear the roar of the storm in her ears, the relentless crashing of the waves against the ship’s hull, the frantic shouts of the crew as they tried in vain to keep the ship afloat. She could still see his face, the terror in his eyes, before it all disappeared beneath the black waters. The night had claimed him, just like it had claimed so many before. And now, here she was, standing alone on the deck of a cruise liner, haunted by the memories of something she couldn’t escape. The ocean called to her, beckoning, and she almost wished it would take her too. She couldn’t stand the pain of living without him, the endless ache in her chest that no one could ever fill.

But then, something shifted. A voice, warm and kind, broke through the darkness of her thoughts. “Are you okay?” The question was simple, but it felt like a lifeline thrown into a sea of despair. She turned slowly, expecting to find someone who would quickly look away, someone who would ignore her sorrow and move on with their own lives. But instead, she was met with a gaze that held something far deeper—concern, tenderness, an understanding she hadn’t expected. His eyes, a rich shade of brown, seemed to reflect the light of the moon, soft and inviting. His smile, shy but genuine, made her heart flutter for the first time in years. She didn’t speak at first, unsure of how to respond to the sudden warmth he offered, as if he had stepped from the shadows of her memories into the painful reality she couldn’t escape. His presence was a balm to the wound she thought would never heal.

He took a step closer, not crowding her, but standing just at the edge of her personal space, as though waiting for her to decide whether or not she would let him in. His fingers hovered near the railing, but he didn’t touch it, giving her the space to breathe. “I don’t mean to intrude, but you don’t have to be alone out here,” he said softly, his voice carrying a gentle warmth that made her heart ache in ways she didn’t fully understand. “The sea’s a bit lonely, don’t you think?” The words were simple, yet they cut through her like a knife. Because he was right. The sea was lonely, and she had been trying to outrun that loneliness for years. But here, with this stranger who seemed to understand something she hadn’t shared with anyone, that loneliness suddenly felt less suffocating.

For a moment, Mia did nothing. She simply stared at him, lost in his gaze. Her heart raced, the pulse of it ringing in her ears, louder than the sound of the waves crashing below. She had tried to close herself off to people after losing him, tried to convince herself that love was just another storm waiting to break her apart. But this stranger, with his unspoken understanding, made her question that belief. “I didn’t think anyone would notice,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the breeze. She wasn’t sure why she said it, but the truth of it lingered in the air between them like a confession she had been carrying for far too long.

He smiled again, and this time, there was something reassuring in the way his lips curved upward, something that made her feel safe in a way she hadn’t felt in so long. “I noticed,” he said, his voice steady, unshaken by the darkness that seemed to envelop them both. “I think the sea has a way of making you feel small, like it could swallow you whole without a second thought. But you don’t have to be alone in that feeling.”

The words settled over her like a blanket, soft and warm, comforting her in ways she hadn’t known she needed. She felt something stir within her, something she hadn’t allowed to grow for years, something that whispered of possibilities, of a future she had almost given up on. She looked at him again, her eyes meeting his, and for the first time since that night, she felt a glimmer of something akin to hope. Maybe not everything was lost. Maybe there was still something worth fighting for, something beyond the pain that had consumed her for so long.

And in that moment, the sea didn’t seem quite so vast. It didn’t feel like it could swallow her whole anymore. With this stranger, this man who saw her for who she truly was and not just the girl haunted by tragedy, the ocean suddenly seemed less like a force of destruction and more like a backdrop to a story she was still writing.

Rhiannon didn’t believe in curses. She believed in weapons, in clean exits, in intelligence operations that cut like a scalpel and left no trail. She’d turned her back on the Agency a year ago—burned her files, fried the implants in her spine, and vanished into smoke and instinct. Since then, she had no code, no orders, just her gut and the growl of old ghosts.

And yet, in the gut of an abandoned asylum deep in the Ashen Wastes, it found her anyway.

The mission was a lie. The coordinates were fake. The moment she stepped into the crumbling hallway, the air shifted—grew dense, wet, alive. The door vanished. The world went dark, but not the kind of dark that blindness brings. No—this was sentient, clinging. A silence so deep it felt like pressure against her skin.

The dark wasn't empty. It breathed.

Rhiannon froze, hand drifting to the blade on her thigh. Silver-edged, etched with runes she barely believed in. She stood still, shoulders high, lips parted. Listening. Nothing but her own blood pounding behind her ears.

Then—

A sound.

Not a monster. Not a whisper. Just a small, soft mew.

She spun, half-laughing in disbelief. "You’ve got to be kidding me."

A cat. Small. White. Pristine, as if it had walked untouched through hell. It stared at her like it owned the dark—like it had been here longer than stone or memory. Its tail flicked. It blinked. And then it turned and padded through a crack in the wall.

She followed. Because of course she did. Because she’d seen monsters wear prettier masks than that.

The walls groaned as she moved. Wood gave way to stone, then to something pulsing and wrong. One step bled into the next like time had become syrup. Her footsteps made no sound. The darkness stayed absolute—but she always saw the cat. That impossible little glow.

Her flashlight died early. Her compass spun until she threw it. At one point, she found a door made of teeth and didn’t open it. Smart girl.

The cat would pause sometimes. Look back at her. Wait. As if asking if she still wanted to leave.

Every hallway was a test. One filled with the smell of her mother’s perfume—though her mother had died when she was twelve. Another echoed with voices from the Agency, calling her back, offering absolution. Her name, repeated like a chant, a promise, a trap.

Still, the cat walked.

And she followed.

In a room of mirrors, she saw a version of herself wearing a wedding band. Another, still an agent—face blank, eyes dead. Another—horrifyingly—was pregnant, rocking gently in a chair that didn’t exist.

She ran. The mirrors shattered behind her.

When her legs gave out, she collapsed in a room that smelled like rusted metal and burnt feathers. The cat jumped onto her back, purring—soft and rhythmic. Like a heartbeat outside of hers.

It grounded her.

She fell asleep.

When she woke, the air was colder. The floor beneath her felt like moss. She blinked, groggy and disoriented, but the cat was still there. Sitting on her chest. Waiting.

She touched its fur. It was warm. Soft. Real.

A light flickered in the distance. Not bright—no salvation—but enough to see by. She moved toward it. Limping, stiff. But she moved.

The exit was a hole in the wall. Rough. Jagged. Too small for dignity, but enough for survival.

The cat went first.

She crawled through like a newborn, dragging herself out of the nightmare’s throat and into the open air. The forest outside was grey, mist-wrapped, and cold as regret.

She collapsed, panting. Her hands were scraped to blood. Her knees bruised.

The cat sat beside her, looking bored.

She laughed. God, she laughed. It was ragged, ugly, triumphant.

"Guess I’m yours now," she murmured, reaching out.

The cat stepped into her lap and curled into a tight, perfect spiral. It purred like thunder behind velvet curtains.

She named her Thimble.

It stuck.

Since then, Thimble never left her side. Through burned cities and shattered alliances, through bad dreams and colder mornings. When Rhiannon shook from memory, Thimble purred until the tremors stopped. When her gun jammed in a fight, Thimble leapt from nowhere and clawed the attacker’s face.

And when Rhiannon stared too long at her reflection and wondered what she'd become, Thimble curled on her chest like an anchor.

People talked. They called her a rogue. A ghost. A traitor.

But Rhiannon the truth. She hadn’t escaped the dark.

She’d brought it with her.

It just happened to purr now.

"Tell me a story"

Monsters can ask nicely too...

She heard him first in the winter—the deep creak of wood, like bones sighing beneath old floorboards. It wasn’t the wind; she knew the wind. This was closer, slower, patient in a way that wind never was. She had been lying awake again, too full of thoughts, staring at the dark ceiling like it might blink first. Her pen rested on her chest, the last line of her journal unfinished: “I don’t know how much more I can take.” That night, she didn't hear whispers. She heard a throat clear. A low, rasping hum as if someone had just woken up, or had been waiting too long. Then, a voice. Not menacing. Not kind. Not threatening, but present. “Tell me a story,” it said, from beneath the bed.

She did what any broken girl would do—froze, blood pulling away from her skin like waves retreating from a shore. Her heart stuttered, but not with fear. Not exactly. The voice hadn’t growled or barked or gnashed. It hadn’t even moved. It had asked. Calmly. As though the monster beneath her bed had been waiting for her permission to speak. She waited, barely breathing, counting the seconds between one blink and the next, but it didn’t speak again. Only the silence answered her, thick as syrup and twice as suffocating. She didn’t scream. There was no one to scream to. Just her, her journal, and a presence in the shadows beneath her mattress.

The next night, it spoke again. The same request, spoken like a ritual. “Tell me a story.” This time, she managed a whisper. “Why?” she asked, voice cracked like frostbitten glass. The thing underneath chuckled softly, like thunder rolling beneath silk sheets. “Because I like your mind. And I’m tired of feeding on silence.” There was no threat. No demand. Just a strange, eerie... politeness. As if it knew manners made it more terrifying. She didn't respond, not that night. But she opened her journal and wrote the line again: “I don’t know how much more I can take.”

By the third night, she told him a story.

It wasn’t a good one. Her voice trembled, her throat dry and bruised with disuse. But she told it—about a girl in a tower, a boy with no mouth, a kingdom that punished those who dream. She told it without flair, just the bones of it, brittle and bare. When she finished, there was no applause. Just silence. Then, after a pause, the voice returned. “That one was sad,” it said, as though offering a book review. “But I liked it. Try again tomorrow.” Then came a sound like a yawn—long, dragging, monstrous—and then...nothing. No claws. No dragging. No breath.

The stories continued. Every night, she spoke, and he listened. Always the same request, always the same stillness. She began to write during the day, as if compelled. Pages filled, stained with ink and fevered thoughts. She wrote about beasts with glass bones and girls with venom on their lips. She wrote tragedies disguised as fairy tales. He never interrupted, never corrected her. Only listened. Sometimes, he’d say things like, “That ending was too kind,” or “Make her bleed next time.” And she would. Willingly. Eagerly. It was terrifying—how easy it became to please a monster.

One night, she asked his name.

There was a pause. Then, with a voice that tasted like rot and roses, he replied, “I’ve had many. But you can call me End.” It wasn’t a name so much as a sentence. A promise. She didn’t ask further. Something in her knew she wouldn’t like the answer. He had become a fixture in her life, a shadow stitched to her feet. She stopped checking under the bed. Stopped fearing the dark. Started dreading the morning, where he could no longer speak to her. Because in daylight, he was silent. Dormant. Waiting. Like all monsters do.

She began to sleep beside her bed instead of on it.

At first, it was just her lying on the floor with her journal, pretending to need to feel “closer to the muse.” But the truth was that she wanted to hear him breathe. Wanted to feel the slight shift of the floorboards when he stirred. Wanted to feel that he was real, because everything else had started feeling less so. Her friends stopped calling. Her job let her go. Her food grew cold while she edited pages. She smiled more. Not because she was happier. But because he laughed when she did.

He began to make requests.

“Write me a queen who kills for her crown.”

“Write me a boy who loves a monster and calls it mother.”

“Write yourself into a nightmare and tell me how it ends.”

And she did. She would write until her fingers ached, until her nails turned purple from holding the pen too tight. The monster would whisper appreciation in the dark like a lover murmuring sweet nothings: “Good girl.” “I liked that death.” “Make it darker.” And she would. Not because she had to—but because she wanted to. Because he listened. Because no one else ever had.

One evening, she bled on the page.

It was an accident, a small cut on her finger from tearing the paper too fast, but the ink ran red that night. She gasped, but he... purred. She felt it, vibrating through the floorboards. “That’s better,” he said. “Real pain. Write with more of that.” And so she started using her blood—just a drop, a smear, a signature at the end of each tale. He liked that. Grew warmer. Closer. She could feel his breath against her ankle now, could see two glowing eyes flicker beneath the gap between bedframe and floor.

She began to forget her own name.

He didn’t call her by it. He called her “Author.” “Dreamer.” “Mine.” No one else called her anything at all. Her phone gathered dust. The mail piled up. She barely noticed. Because the stories had become real. They lived in her sleep. She dreamt in prose, cried in metaphors. The line between fiction and flesh blurred like rain on a windowpane. One night, she woke up with ink in her mouth. Another night, the words crawled up her throat like vines.

Then, one night, he said, “Come see me.”

She hesitated. Not out of fear. But anticipation. What if he wasn’t what she pictured? What if he was less? Or... more? The floorboards groaned as if in invitation. She placed her journal down like an offering, slowly slid herself beneath the bed. It was dark, cramped, dusty. But then—space. Endless, echoing space. She was falling. Or floating. The bed above her vanished like a peeled-away scab. She found herself in a library of shadows, paper walls and blood-inked spines. And there he was. All teeth, all hunger, all patient adoration. The monster who listened.

He touched her face with claws gentler than any lover.

“You’ve written me into being,” he whispered, voice made of thunderclouds and lullabies. “Now let me write the rest of you.” She wanted to run. She wanted to stay. Her chest ached with too many emotions and not enough room. He held out a book. Blank. Waiting. “This is yours,” he said. “Let’s fill it. Together.” Her fingers trembled as she took it, and something inside her—something soft and broken and barely human—sighed.

And so she stayed.

She writes every night now, but not alone. He sits behind her, humming, his breath on her neck like fog. Sometimes he kisses her shoulder. Sometimes he bites it. Sometimes, when she writes especially well, he praises her in ways that make her legs shake. The stories have grown darker, deeper, soaked in myth and madness. She no longer signs her name in ink. She uses bone dust and tears. She no longer lives above the bed. She lives beneath it.

And no one has seen her in months.

But if you listen closely—on the coldest nights, when the wind has teeth—you might hear it. A girl’s voice. Telling a story. And another voice, low and devout, murmuring back: “Good girl.” “Again.” “Tell me another.” The floorboards creak. The shadows thicken. And somewhere far below the world, beneath splinters and shame, a monster and his writer live happily ever after.

In ink.

In blood.

In story.

Hey there...

A long distance story

She presses the phone tighter to her ear, the night swallowing the sound of her breath. His voice is soft, half a world away, and it fills the hollow in her chest with warmth that doesn’t last long enough. They’ve talked for hours already, the kind of hours that blur the sky from black to grey, where dawn doesn’t feel like hope but like a reminder that time never stops. She listens to his laughter like it’s a song she knows by heart, even though every note cuts her a little more. This isn’t new. This ache. This distance. But tonight, she can’t stop staring at the empty side of her bed, where his body should’ve been.

She wonders if he hears the longing in her silence. If the way she sighs after his name tells him everything she’s too proud to say. It’s not that she doubts he loves her. God, no—he loves her. But love doesn’t warm her fingers when they’re curled into a blanket without his arms. Love doesn’t hold her waist in the dark or whisper against her skin. And even though he’s on the line, even though his voice is here, she still feels like she’s holding hands with a memory. Something fading.

He asks about her day. She lies. Says it was fine. She doesn’t tell him she cried in the shower because the silence was too loud. She doesn’t mention how she paused her music just to imagine him humming in the kitchen, even if it hurt. Instead, she jokes. Teases. Plays the part of the girl who isn’t falling apart under the weight of missing him. Because if she says it out loud, it might become too real. Too sharp. And she’s not sure her heart can survive a deeper cut.

She tells him she misses him, but not all the way. Not the full truth. Because if she did, she’d confess she misses the way he brushes the hair from her face more than anything else. That she misses how he used to say her name like it meant everything. She doesn’t say that her body aches for him—not just in a way that wants him, but in a way that needs to be held. In a way that makes her feel like she’s disappearing without his hands to anchor her.

Sometimes, she whispers things into the phone when she thinks he’s asleep. Things she’d never dare say when he’s awake. Little confessions laced with poetry and pain. “I’m scared I’ll get used to this,” she once said. “Scared that I’ll learn to live without the warmth of you beside me, and one day it won’t hurt anymore. And that? That terrifies me more than anything.” She heard him inhale, slow and deep, but he never responded. She pretended he was just too tired. Pretended that silence wasn’t an answer.

She falls asleep to the sound of his voice more nights than not. It’s become her lullaby, that rhythm of him speaking softly, telling her about his day, about people she’s never met, streets she’s never walked. She closes her eyes and pretends he’s beside her, mouth brushing her ear, hand stroking her back. But when she wakes up, the phone is dead, and the only thing next to her is the emptiness he left behind.

She keeps things that smell like him. A hoodie draped over her desk chair. A shirt tucked beneath her pillow. She presses her face to the fabric and breathes deep, as if inhaling his scent will stitch something inside her back together. But even that is fading. Scents don’t last. Neither do voices, not really. Sometimes she plays old voicemails just to remind herself what his laughter used to sound like before the tiredness crept in.

Her friends tell her to be strong. To hang in there. That love like this is worth waiting for. But they don’t understand what it means to reach across an ocean every night just to feel a heartbeat. They don’t know what it’s like to kiss the air and hope it finds its way to him. To ache in places too deep for words. To fall asleep clutching a phone and waking up with a screen full of nothing.

She tells him she's okay when he asks. She smiles when her voice cracks. He never pushes. Never demands the truth. Maybe because he knows if he asks the right question, she’ll unravel. And then what? What does he do with a girl who’s breaking in a place he can’t reach? So they keep it safe. They keep it sweet. But even sweet things rot if you leave them out too long.

She watches couples in the street, arms looped, faces tucked close, and she wonders what it would be like to do something so small and so stupid with him. Just buy groceries. Just walk home together. Just exist in the same damn room. She’d trade every late-night call just to have one hour with him in the soft light of morning, when nothing hurts and everything is still quiet.

Some nights she thinks about the day they met. How his laugh lit her up from the inside. How the way he looked at her made her feel like she was made of constellations. She replays their first date like it’s a scene from a film she refuses to let fade. And sometimes, when the loneliness is too sharp, she wonders if he’s doing the same. If he thinks about the way her fingers trembled the first time he held her hand.

She wishes he could see her now. Not because she’s beautiful, though he always says she is. But because she wants him to know what she looks like when she misses him. Hair tousled, eyes red, wearing the sweater he left behind. She wants him to see the cost of distance. Not to make him feel guilty. But so he knows just how much of her still belongs to him, even in silence.

They tell each other stories. It’s their thing. Little fables wrapped in truth. He tells her about the stars above his city. She tells him about the rain that won’t stop falling. They build each other worlds in words. It’s the only way they get to touch. Through syllables. Through poetry. Through sighs that linger too long between sentences.

She keeps a list of things to tell him. Jokes. Dreams. Strange thoughts that pop up during the day. It makes her feel close to him, knowing that even when they’re not talking, he’s in her mind. That everything still connects back to him. But the list is getting longer. Too long. And every item feels like a reminder of everything they’re not sharing right now.

He once told her, “You feel like home.” She wrote it down. She memorized it. It became a prayer, a truth she wrapped herself in like armor. But some days, she wonders if homes are supposed to be this quiet. This cold. She wonders if he still believes it. If she still feels like home to someone who hasn’t touched her in weeks.

Sometimes, they talk for hours and say everything except what matters. I miss you. I need you. I’m falling apart without your breath on my neck. Instead, they talk about shows, food, the future. A future that always feels just out of reach. Like a postcard they keep meaning to send but never write.

She never tells him that when he hangs up, she talks to the shadows. That she pretends he’s still there, listening. She tells the darkness things she can’t say aloud. That she’s scared. That she wants to scream. That she’d give anything to fall asleep with her fingers tangled in his.

They never fight. Not really. There’s no space for it. How do you scream through a phone? How do you cry when your voice has to be clear enough to carry across time zones? So they hold back. They stay good. But inside her, there are things boiling, things she’s swallowing every day just to keep from shattering the illusion that love is enough.

She tells herself it’s temporary. That one day he’ll come back, or she’ll go to him. That these phone calls will become memories, not lifelines. But sometimes, that hope feels like a noose. Tight. Quiet. Beautiful. She wants to believe. She needs to believe. But believing hurts more than she expected.

Still, she keeps picking up the phone. Still, she keeps dialing. Still, she answers when he calls and her heart races every single time. Because even with all the pain, all the silence, all the ache—his voice is the only thing that makes the loneliness bearable. Even if it’s not enough.

She doesn’t say it, but she loves him more every night. Loves him in the quiet, in the ache, in the space where his hand should be. And love, even the aching kind, is still love. It's still alive. Still waiting. Still listening. Still breathing.