Lovergirl Chronicles : Entry Three
Summer, 2025.
Dream : Lavender in the House.
I. The House
There was a house that looked like a strip club, but it had the breath of something older, a mansion of mirrors, bodies, and blurry intentions.
I walked in like I belonged. But I didnβt.
I wore lavender. Soft, graceful, sacred. Lingerie delicate. Heels that didnβt hurt? They werenβt for performance. They were for me.
Women everywhere were offering pieces of themselves, beautifully, painfully. The air was thick with want. Not just lust, but longing. A need to be touched. To be chosen.
II. Searching for Eyes That Stay
I wasnβt untouched. They noticed me. Fingers brushed. Voices praised. βDamn, sheβs fineβ¦β But no one stepped closer.
Maybe they saw what I hadnβt yet accepted: That I was never here to be taken. I was looking for someone. Not anyone, someone. Not hands, not hips. Just eyes that would meet mine and not flinch.
III. Light in the Dark
My cousin appeared beside me, light in the dark. Her hand held mine like we were little girls again, figuring stuff out. But the crowd swallowed her.
And just like that, I was alone again.
I kept seeing familiar faces. Their joy was unbothered, some just there for the music. I hugged a few old friends like I hadnβt just walked into a series of confusion.
I kept moving.
IV. The Warning
Room to room. Flashing lights. Unspoken rules. One woman stopped me and said, βThis space is for the seasonedβ¦ youβre not ready.β I nodded, already halfway out the door. Something inside me stirredβ¦ not shame, not fear, but knowing. A reminder: I didnβt belong where my spirit felt uneasy.
I danced once. Briefly. It didnβt last. It didnβt move anything inside me.
V. The Cook
Suddenly, while I was touring the hallways, I dropped something. He picked it up. The cook. He worked behind the scenes, eyes warm but steady, like he saw me, not just my body. Not a customer. Not a watcher. He looked at me like he knew I wasnβt part of the show.
βYouβre beautiful,β he said. I believed him. For a moment, I wondered, Is this what I was looking for? But before it could go anywhere, another woman stepped in. A silent claim. A wall I couldnβt explain.
So I left. I took off my lavender heels. Walked out without sound. No one followed. No one stopped me. Sometimes closure is just an exit.
VI. The Shift
Outside, the air felt different, heavy and wrong. A dancer, drunk, spinning on a motorcycle flew into the concrete like a cracked porcelain doll. Her body landed where she had been dancing hours before.
The rhythm stopped. The party, finished. No one noticed.
I didnβt stop. Not because I didnβt care, but because I knew I couldnβt save her. Some crashes arenβt mine to catch or clean up.
VII. The Man with Scissors
I turned up a hill to escape it all, but it led nowhere. A dead end driveway. An end I hadnβt planned for.
Thatβs when I saw him. A man holding scissors, dripping with blood. Not chasing, just walking. Like heβd done this numerous times before. He didnβt notice me. But I saw him. I realized, he wasnβt for me. He was for her. The one who crashed.
And I understood.
Some paths promise thrill, but end in destruction. Some wounds arenβt mine to carry. Some doors, no matter how inviting, arenβt meant for me to enter. Because after the thrill wears off, after the fall, something always comes to collect. And maybe the real protection is in knowing when to walk away before the dance becomes the damage.
VIII. After the Dream
(Reflections from Lover Girl)
Lavender, the color stayed with me for so long after this dream. It wasnβt just lingerie, it was me, soft but strong, sacred but curious, still spiritual even while wandering through a hyper-sexualized space. It reminded me, I can explore identity, desire, and expression without ever losing my inner purity or intention.
The houseβ¦ it breathed like temptation, walls heavy with secrets, mirrors bending back pieces of myself. It wasnβt just about sex, it was about being seen. Beautiful, yes. Desired, yes. But not chosen. That ache of knowing your worth, yet still feeling unseen in the ways that matter most.
Even there,I was searching for something deeper. Not hands. Not hips. Eyes that wouldnβt flinch when they met mine. A connection that didnβt just spark chemistry but also understood spirit.
My cousin showing up was no accident. She was comfort, protection, innocence and the parts of me that still crave safety. When the crowd swallowed her, it felt like losing my anchor. I was left to navigate alone, trusting my spirit instead of my surroundings.
Then there was him, βthe cook.β Not part of the show, not performing, just real.
For a moment, I wondered if thatβs what Iβd been looking for. But the woman stepping between us was the barrier I wasnβt even prepared for. Self-doubt, heβs occupied, simply a reminder that the βright thingβ isnβt always right now, or divine timing.
Then, the shift.
The crash. A body broken against concrete. It wasnβt mine to save her. Some crashes arenβt mine to catch or clean up.
The man with the bloody scissorsβ¦ I didnβt need him to notice me to understand. He was a warning. The risks that are shiny or fun, but wound. The spiritual attacks that come in silently. The reminder that I am allowed to walk away before I get cut open, too.
Now I see it clearly. Iβm in a season of curiosity, testing identity, stretching expression, stepping into new spacesβ¦ but also listening for Spirit and protecting my peace.
Iβm not lost. Iβm discerning. Iβm searching for real connection, not empty offers.And Iβm learning to know the difference between what I want to run toward and what I must walk away from.
Even if I try to blend in, I donβt belong where my spirit doesnβt feel safe. Lavender whispered that to me. Iβm learning, Iβm listening.
β§ Serai Eden Cruz, Lover Girl β§
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βI walked into a house dressed like sin, but lavender whisperedβ¦ she doesnβt live here.β β―οΈ
