Half Open: A Letter to the One I Long

Half Open is a letter to Anita—part confession, part surrender, and part longing.

Dear Anita,

I don’t know why you came to me in that dream—or maybe I do. Maybe some part of me still aches for the softness I saw in you, the sweetness I didn’t give a chance to bloom. But in that dream, I did. You were waiting for me in a hillside village—calm, beautiful, alive. Like you knew I’d come, like you'd always known.

We didn’t speak much. We didn’t need to. Your eyes held that quiet, knowing smile. The way you looked at me—like I was already yours. I felt your surrender without words. I followed you to that small room by the roadside, just big enough for us. Outside, cars and people passed by like a forgotten world. But inside… everything slowed.

The door was half open, like the world could peek in if it dared. Maybe I wanted it to. Maybe I wanted the world to know I was finally inside you—not in lust, not in hurry, just in you. Every inch of me sunk into you, slow and deliberate, and you took me in with a silence so deep it made me ache.

You held me, wrapped your arms around my back, and I could feel the wetness between your thighs, the way your breath changed—not in gasps or moans, but in that subtle tremble women have when they’re completely open. You were warm, soft, dripping with quiet need, and I just stayed there, buried inside, feeling you throb gently around me.

I didn’t rush. I didn’t want to come. I just wanted to feel the fullness of us, of that impossible moment where your body told me everything I’d never heard from your lips. Your hands moved slowly across my back, your thighs opened wider as if to let me deeper, and your eyes never left mine. You didn’t say anything. But I knew you were mine in that moment—and I was completely yours.

Maybe it was only a dream. But it felt real. Too real. And if you read this—if you feel a pulse between your legs as your breath deepens—then maybe some part of you still remembers what we never had, but should have.

Always,
Me