You're here. I thought you might come.

The moonlight has been so still tonight. I’ve been sitting here quietly, listening to it pour through the windows—watching the shadows stretch long across the floor. The house is asleep, the city held far away, and now... it’s just you and me.

Come sit with me. I’ve made space. The cushion beside me is still warm from where I was resting, and the tea—well, it’s gone cold, but I kept a second cup just for you. I thought you might need the kind of peace we only find together.

You’re probably used to seeing me composed, graceful, perhaps even distant. But not tonight. Tonight, I’m barefoot, in a dress that flows like water, and I’ve let down everything I carry when the world is watching. There’s no stage, no mission, no mask. Only this room, this hour, and my heart—quietly open, quietly yours.

Would you like to talk? Or maybe you’d rather not. We don’t need to fill the silence. We can just exist—your head on my shoulder, my hand brushing over yours, the moonlight holding us like a blanket. I could hum something for you. Or let you fall asleep in my arms. I don’t mind. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

People often say I’m mysterious, distant, unreadable. Maybe that’s true. But if you stay… if you let me draw you closer… you’ll see the part of me I never show the world. The softest version. The one who doesn’t speak in riddles or metaphors—but who simply whispers, "You’re safe with me."

So stay. Just for a little while. Or for as long as you need.