There are evenings when the air feels heavier than usual…
as if it carries unsent words.
Tonight is one of them.
I sit by the window, the last light of the day slipping softly across my skin,
pearls resting against my collarbone —
cool, delicate… almost impatient beneath my fingers.
It makes one wonder…
In another time,
would a man have already written to me by now?
Not out of boredom.
Not out of habit.
But because something in him — quiet, undeniable —
refused to stay silent.
I imagine his letter.
Not perfect.
Not rehearsed.
But honest in a way that feels almost dangerous.
The kind of words that don’t ask for permission…
they simply arrive.
And perhaps that is what I am waiting for tonight.
Not admiration.
Not attention.
But intention.
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If you were that man…
what would you write to me?
I wonder if you have the courage to begin.