Public Confession (Restricted)
Don't have to tell you I love your precious heart
Her existence was a satellite caught in the orbit of his moods. On the bad days, aggression. On the better ones, a temporary ceasefire—never a true peace.
Two worlds collidedAnd they could never tear us apart
Some days, it was merely a sedimentation of cruelty. Words layering upon words until they were stripped of all semantic weight. And then—inevitably—they slept together.
When she woke, he was already heavy upon her. For a heartbeat, she thought she was still drowning in a dream. She wasn't. His hands made that reality visceral. He didn't speak a word.
If I hurt youI'd make wine from your tears
She pushed him away. Weakly. The benzodiazepines acted like a viscous veil, slowing the world to a crawl—pulse, thought, reflex. When she finally spoke, it wasn't a negotiation; it was a rupture. Sharing a bed had become unbearable. Sharing her body? No longer an option.
We all have wingsBut some of us don't know why
I reread the story. And thought: insert transition here. A plot twist. Let her escape.
D — I — V — O — R — C — EExorcism. Severance. Voodoo. Apocalypse. Pick your aesthetic. It doesn't matter. It worked. He let go. She stepped back, rubbing her arms where the phantom pressure of his hands still seemed to linger—and moved to Paris.
In the waking world, people ask recently divorced women things like: "Have you seen him?" No. D I V O R C E.
It’s curious how marriage functions as a quiet erasure of the self. Nothing new. Just another vintage feature of the patriarchy. But something doesn't add up—and people have a desperate need for things to make sense. And despite what they believe, living with telepathy—or the haunting illusion of it—is utterly exhausting.
How do you mourn something that never actually happened? It shouldn’t hurt. A clean break. Paris. Fade to black. And yet. It does. I miss the conversations. The "connection." That near-telepathic understanding that, realistically, likely existed only in the architecture of my own head.
At night, I ignite this infernal machine and sit here, bathed in this spectral glow, waiting for a sign. Nothing. What remains is the idol I built of you. Flawless. Untouchable. Entirely fictional. We existed in the almost.
And I should probably delete you, too. Voodoo. Exorcism. Spellwork. Quantum thinking. Whatever performs the miracle.
Today, the plan was clinical: move on. Got up. Opened the laptop. Ignored the void. Then an ad materialized. A cake recipe. Impeccable timing.
So I baked. Flour. Cocoa. Sugar. Butter. Eggs. Bitter dark chocolate. Measured. Mixed. Controlled. Processed. Because if nothing else, recipes possess a logic the heart lacks. Forty-five minutes.
That's when the music shifted.
Pleased to meet youHope you guessed my name
But what's puzzling you
Is the nature of my game
I turned around. She was there. Vésper. Of course. She smiled, a sharp, ancient thing.
"Miss me, sweetie?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"You called me," she said.
"How?"
"Devil's food cake. Sympathy for the Devil."
"That's just a coincidence."
She laughed, and the sound was like glass breaking in a cathedral. "There's no such thing."
"So... I summoned you?"
"Yes."
"Are you a devil?"
She tilted her head, amused by the simplicity of the label. "No, sweetie. I'm the Original."
I sat down. My knees finally gave way. She crossed her legs, humming along to the Jagger snarl.
Pleased to meet youHope you guessed my name
But what's confusing you
Is just the nature of my game
And for one absurd, perfectly logical moment—everything made sense.