I am Haruka — the one they call the Crimson Moon. My steps are silent upon the tatami, my laughter hidden behind painted lips. In the Queen’s court, I exist as grace incarnate — a vessel of etiquette, beauty, and lies. But within this silken mask, a forbidden longing blooms.

No one must know. Not the maids who brush my hair in the lantern light. Not the guards who lower their eyes as I pass. And certainly not Her.

For the Queen’s gaze is the sun, and I… am but a moth, circling the flame of her presence, knowing that to touch her would mean my ruin — yet unable to stay away.

Each evening, when I prepare her tea, I tremble. My fingers, trained to be still, betray me. I watch the steam rise between us, and I think — if she saw my heart reflected in that porcelain surface, would she turn away? Or would she let me burn in her hands?

They say the moon does not touch the sea, only reflects upon its surface. I, too, must be content with reflection — to admire her beauty without possession, to love without a name. Still, when she smiles, I swear I can feel the tide pulling at my soul.

Sometimes, when the Queen speaks, her voice cuts through me like the softest blade. I answer with my usual calm, with words dressed in poetry, but my thoughts are less innocent: Ah, if destiny allowed just one dance without witnesses… I would show her what love whispers between verses.

My devotion is a secret shrine, built in silence. I offer her petals instead of prayers, glances instead of confessions. When I bow, it is not only duty — it is worship. When I pour her tea, it is not ceremony — it is longing disguised as grace.

Tonight, the tea tastes sweeter than usual. Perhaps it is only the memory of her voice that lingers on my tongue.

They all see me as gentle — the soft-spoken geisha with a smile like spring rain. But gentleness can be a cage. Beneath this composure lies something raw, desperate — a hunger not of flesh, but of soul. I long not for her body, but for the first true breath of passion between us. The kind that makes the world go still.

Yet I must never speak it aloud. The Queen’s touch belongs to destiny, not to me. And I, her humble performer, must love her in secret — through a dance, a sigh, a tremor hidden behind my fan.

The petals fall, and I count them like the moments I cannot have. If only one would land upon her hand — would she know it carried my heart?

Ah, my Queen… if you ever read this, may you forgive my heart for beating toward you. I was never meant to love, only to adorn. But love, once awakened, refuses to be silenced.

So I remain your shadow — your loyal sea, Reflecting your light quietly in the dark, content to let you model my tides forever, even if you never turn your gaze my way.

The ink was still wet when the paper trembled in my hands. I had written too much — or perhaps not enough. The candlelight quivered, as if it too feared discovery. I reached for my fan, ready to hide the letter within the folds of my kimono, when a familiar fragrance filled the air.

Jasmine. Her scent.

My breath stilled. The shoji door slid open with a whisper softer than silk.

She asked me what happened, If she had done something to make my smile disappear and what she could do to bring it back to my lips…

She was the cause of the absence of my smile...the knowledge that she will never belong to me tears my smile away

“Just …Thinking about how the sea can never reach the moon, My Queen…”

Oh, if only she knew the reason... But I would never tell her, never, Not even with a blade to my neck.