The Ruin Script

we were sitting on the sand, the sun melting into the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and rose. she turned toward me, just for a moment, and smiled—a small, quiet smile that made the world feel heavier and lighter at once. her hand brushed against mine, slow and deliberate, and in that touch, memories flooded back—the way it all began, how every detail of her became a part of me.

it was sunset the first time i saw her. she was alone. absorbed in her notebook, scribbling words only she could understand. the sky was blazing, but all i could notice was her—the tilt of her head, the way her fingers traced sentences, the quiet intensity in her eyes. people would have thought her untouchable, unapproachable. she wasn’t loud or flashy. she didn’t seek attention. most people would have walked away, intimidated by the depth they didn’t understand.

but i couldn’t. i stayed, quietly, like the tide observing the shore, watching her in silence. i studied her rituals—the way she traced her pen over the page, the way she tilted her head when thinking, the way she watched the sun and moon as if they could answer questions no one else dared to ask. i noticed the way she carried her grief lightly, hiding it in the folds of her solitude, and the way her laughter was brief but luminous. she was not hard to love; she was an open book, but only to those patient enough to read between the lines. loving her meant learning her language, acknowledging her walls, honoring her pain without trying to fix it. it meant waiting, understanding, and being patient enough to be allowed into her space.

over time, i began to see the layers beneath the caution—the way she lingered over words, the way she cherished the small beauties of the world. she was observant, introspective, endlessly fascinating. she didn’t give herself lightly, but what she did give was rare and infinite. she trusted only those who would read her scribbles carefully, notice the subtle poetry in her silences, and stay even when the depths were heavy. and i wanted all of it. every layer. every fragment. every quiet, fragile truth.

then she began to let me in. not recklessly, not all at once—everything from her was deliberate, a sacred vow she offered only to me. her love was quiet but profound. she wrote poems that traced the edges of her thoughts, dedicated to me, subtle as a whisper yet fierce in their sincerity. she brushed my hair from my eyes when she thought i wasn’t looking, lingered in small touches, watched me in silence. every gesture was intentional, every action a quiet promise. she loved me by observing me, understanding me, accepting me without trying to change me.

i learned that loving her meant seeing everything—the shadows she carried, the careful walls, the depth of her solitude. she loved me the way she loved the world around her: carefully, deliberately, beautifully. her caution was not distance—it was sacred. she had chosen me to witness her heart, and she did so with the same care she put into every line she wrote, every poem she breathed into existence. loving her had become a quiet art—learning to understand her shadows, the careful way she guarded her heart, the beautiful tension between her strength and vulnerability. it was a love that didn’t rush, didn’t demand, that simply existed in quiet presence, in patience, in reverence.

now, sitting beside her on the same sand where it all began, i watched the last light of the sun spill across the water. she rested her head on my shoulder, and her hand found mine without hesitation. the way she had given herself to me—in fragments, in gestures, in words that were poetry and prayer—is overwhelming. she is out of my league, yes, but in the same breath, she has taught me that love is not about leagues at all. it is about attention, understanding, and reverence. it is about learning to see someone fully, and having the honor of being seen back.

i kissed her hand, feeling every careful vow she had given me, every gesture of love that had built this world between us. her presence is mesmerizing—a slow-burning certainty, a love that is patient, observant, sacred. and as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, i realized that loving her, being loved by her, is a lifetime in a single sunset—a calm, endless, beautiful beginning that would never end.

author’s note:
— bled by @achilleusdeirdre
— 18th of november, year 2025
— open to criticism; all echoes welcome.
— lowercase intended for signature writing.