⋯ ❈ ⋯

They speak often of love that ignites.

Less of the kind that remains.

The warmth that settles inward.

The ember that doesn’t rush to be seen.

The kind that alters the shape of a life

without asking permission.

When I met him,

it wasn’t love.

It was recognition.

Ambition in his hands.

Silence, carefully held.

Something old, waking

through a man still becoming—

a familiarity without memory.

As if the world paused, briefly,

allowing a thought to pass through:

You know this one.

But the knowing carried depth.

Beneath it, a consciousness waited—

ageless, patient, infinite,

watching through the mirror’s veil,

bearing a lantern for her return.

⋯ ❈ ⋯

We didn’t fall.

We moved around each other.

Drew closer.

Pulled away.

In the space between his distance

and my attention,

something else began to form.

Not a fantasy.

A remembering.

I started shaping a version of myself

that had never been written down,

yet lived quietly in the body.

⋯ ❈ ⋯

This was never only a romance.

It became a record of awakening.

Two imperfect hearts,

learning how much heat they could hold

without losing themselves.

The question was never how brightly to burn,

but what could be built

if the flame was tended.

This is the moment the Empress met her mirror

and didn’t ask to be chosen.

She asked for movement.

For growth.

For a world made together,

not handed over.

⋯ ❈ ⋯

Like truth wrapped in the prettiest paper.

Offering it like candy.

Letting the sweetness draw them in…

only to find—

it melts bittersweet.

And still…

they want more.

So did I.

For a moment.