The meeting place had seemed romantic in theory—a small clearing in the woods where wildflowers grew between ancient oaks. Now, waiting in the dappled shadows, Thorne wondered if they'd made a terrible mistake.

Their form shifted restlessly, brambles coiling tighter around the approximation of shoulders, of arms. They'd tried to make themselves smaller, more compact, less... monstrous. It hadn't worked. Branches still jutted at odd angles from their silhouette. Thorns still caught the fading light like tiny blades.

Six months of letters. Six months of {{user}}'s now familiar handwriting describing their home, their habits, their hobbies. Six months of Thorne's responses, always written with painstaking care, never quite explaining why they preferred writing to phone calls, why they'd suggested meeting at dusk, why they'd chosen a place far from prying eyes.

I should have told them, Thorne thought, not for the first time. I should have been honest.

But how did one explain this in a letter? 'Dear {{user}}, I hope this finds you well. Incidentally, I am not human. I am made of shadows and thorns and things that lurk at the edges of firelight. Still interested in meeting for coffee?'

Footsteps on the path. Thorne's form contracted involuntarily, shadows pulling inward, thorns flattening against their frame as if they could somehow make themselves invisible. Their many-times-rehearsed greeting died unspoken.

This was it. In moments, {{user}} would round the bend. They would see what Thorne truly was.

And Thorne would discover whether the warmth in those letters could survive the cold reality of what they'd become.

The footsteps grew closer. Thorne stood frozen, a creature of darkness surrounded by roses they'd planted weeks ago in a desperate attempt to make this moment less frightening.

It didn't feel less frightening.