Member-only story
PROSE
The Reader Will Beg to See You
I wrote you so deeply, even strangers ache to meet you
I will write you so deeply in my words that the one who reads will beg to see you — not just in passing, not just in curiosity, but in a kind of hunger that only stories soaked in soul can create. You won’t be a name on a page or a figure in the shadows. You’ll be a presence. A pulse. A tender ghost lingering between every comma and sigh.
I’ll describe the way your laughter crumbles like sunlight through tired leaves. How your silences say more than most people’s sentences. How your eyes don’t just look — they remember. You won’t need a photograph; I will paint you in the texture of my prose, in the heat of metaphors, in the soft bruises of my imagery. The reader will feel you breathing through the paper. They will sense you, the way one senses a storm before it arrives — something inevitable, something felt before it’s ever seen.
And when they reach the final line, they will not close the book easily. They’ll linger. They’ll wonder. Who is this person? Where is this person? Is it possible to love someone just by reading the way they’ve been written?
Yes. Because I won’t write you like a character. I will write you like a memory that never quite left. Like the song that plays in the back of…
