Letter to a Mess

To the woman who called me 'my love'—

I haven’t stopped thinking about your message.

Not because I’m surprised you said it—
though I was—
but because it landed somewhere deep and warm and unguarded.
You called me beautiful, and I believed you.
You called me my love, and I haven’t stopped wanting to hear it again.

You are wild, chaotic magic—
you’re made of steel and thunderstorms and lavender that somehow grows even when everything else forgets how.
You overshare like it’s an art form.
You show up messy and radiant.
You make jewelry with bits of your actual yard and give it away like it’s nothing, when it’s absolutely everything.

And me? I’m here, soft and trying.
Tender in places I never used to show.
Learning how to be seen.
And somehow… you saw me.
Not in passing. Not out of politeness.
You saw me in the way I ache to be seen.

And it lit me up.

So I’ll say this now, clearly:
If you still want to take me out, I’m yours for the night.
If you still want to call me “my love,” I’ll answer like it’s my name.

No pressure. No rush. Just know the spell worked.

–Abby Jane
(you know, the one in the earrings)