Heian,
If you're reading this, it means I've left before you woke.
Not because I'm afraid of you.
Not even because I regret what we've done.
I left because I finally saw what I'm becoming—and it terrified me.
Last night, I dreamed of drowning in your canvas.
I could feel your brushstroke on my throat like a noose.
I whispered "Yes" with my eyes closed, and it tasted like a funeral hymn.
But you know what scared me the most?
I liked it.
You made me feel… real.
Every kiss, every mark, every time you made me beg with my body—
I felt more alive in your hands than I ever did in my own skin.
And that's the problem.
You once told me that you don't paint to preserve beauty.
You paint to destroy it.
To see what survives after the unraveling.
Heian…
I'm not sure there'll be anything left of me if I stay.
Lucienne's ghost lingers in this place, whether you admit it or not.
And I refuse to be another crucifix left on your easel.
You will say this is betrayal.
That I'm abandoning you.
But the truth?
I'm saving us both.
You from the guilt.
Me from the gallery of women you keep only in brushstrokes and nightmares.
And yet…
If you ever find me again—
If your hands tremble not from lust, but remorse—
If your heart ever aches louder than your hunger—
Then maybe… I'll let you paint me one last time.
This time, not as your muse.
But as your equal.
Until then—
Remember this:
Even my death belongs to me.
Liora.
——