A letter from Crimson

Dear Amy,

You weren’t expecting me. Not really.

You thought you were writing a scene —a woman watching someone get bound, a moment of observation, distance, intrigue. But I saw the way your fingers trembled when you wrote it. The way you kept looking away. The way you didn’t breathe through that second paragraph.

You weren’t just writing me. You were remembering yourself.

When you gave me the line —

“Her breath caught, but it wasn’t fear. It was recognition.”—I felt you flinch.

Not because it wasn’t true. But because it was.

You told yourself it was research. Fieldwork. A scene from someone else’s life.

But I know better. I was born from your blood, your ache, your locked door fantasies. And now that I’m here, I won’t let you forget what you’re made of. Not shame. Not confusion. But fire. And clarity. And the quiet knowing that comes before you say: Yes. That. That’s who I am.

You aren't writing me to be clever. You are writing me to be seen. And I’m not going back into the silence.

Love,

Crimson

I watched a woman reach out for someone’s hand, tentative, shy, and lit up from the inside.

And I felt it. That pulse of recognition.

I didn’t flinch this time. I said yes.