I come to recognize in our shared history a kind of flagellant love: a persistence that drives itself into the soft flesh of my temples with the certainty and merciless force of an arrow, as if Cupid himself had descended to earth only to gift me a kind of migraine. It is not a metaphorical pain, but a blind and rhythmic pulse that dictates the entire geometry of my days. It is a tactile urgency behind my eyes that compels me to repeat your name every twenty or thirty minutes, like a secular prayer whispered into the void to keep the world from dissolving into static.
These last two and a half years, which I once believed I understood, now reveal themselves as nothing more than a preface—a stammering introito to the immense and terrifying joy that has governed these past few days. I suddenly find myself standing before the sudden blooming of your affection with a stubborn ignorance. I do not wish to solve the enigma of this unexpected blush nor trace the dark genealogy of these tears, because to understand a miracle is often the first step toward destroying it.
Let my mind remain, then, like a shuttered room in half-light, where letters drift like dust motes inside a beam of sun: clumsy, intricate, tangled between the palms of my hands and the root of my tongue in order to form the words I always want to say to you. Today, that word is Goddess. A term I have never entirely avoided saying to you, though I protect it from the erosion of everyday language, perhaps instinctively preserving its terrible weight for this precise moment in which I tell you this:
To call you Goddess is to admit that I have been building an altar in the silence of my thoughts without realizing it—or perhaps consciously; I still do not know. It is to recognize that within you exists the total, suffocating, absolute sum of everything I have ever longed for and everything my poverty of language has never managed to measure. It is a word that demands ritual and complete surrender of the ego. I offer it to you now the way one offers a heart to the fire: without the slightest hope of getting it back.
But at the same time, the word “Goddess” comes to mind every time I look at you. Not as some distant title, but because in you I see something of the force Aphrodite once carried: a beauty that is not merely observed, but that attracts, dismantles, and transforms everything it touches. There is in you that same mixture of grace and power, that same ability to make the world feel more alive and more dangerous at once. It is not something I can explain easily; it is simply what I feel whenever I stand before you.
By calling you Goddess, I do not mean to place you upon some unreachable pedestal. I only want you to know that to me, you represent the most beautiful and powerful thing I have ever known. It is my sincerest way of surrendering to what you awaken inside me, without filters and without exaggeration.
I find myself forced to dissect your beauty simply in order to survive contemplating it, breaking it apart into infinities I can manage. I am haunted whenever I speak about you by the architecture of your curls: that golden and precise disorder that seems to obey its own laws of gravity and light. They are a labyrinth in which I wish to lose myself forever, a chaotic and living crown framing your forehead like a wild halo. Every strand seems like a line of poetry not yet written, a soft rebellion against the stillness of the room, a frantic geography of silk that I travel with my eyes until the vision of it becomes a physical weight inside my chest. To touch even one of those curls would be to touch the very center of your electricity.
When I saw that you had cut your hair, I felt a jolt of vertigo so sudden that for a moment the world stopped. I thought: Did she cut her hair? Yes. And I could feel my neurons scrambling to decide what to say in the face of such a change—a change that captivated me not only because I already felt you existed beyond any line or adjective that could ever define you, but because you yourself seemed to feel that way too. For one brief moment, though, uncertainty overtook me: Had I simply imagined her with short hair? No. You had truly cut it. Those were the longest fifteen seconds of my life: not knowing whether the change was real or whether I was losing my mind. And then, after seeing you again and again, I discovered—with a mixture of shock and profound adoration—that in this new nakedness, you are also absolutely perfect.
The clean and elegant line of your nape now lies exposed like an intimate revelation, a delicate and vulnerable curve that was once hidden and now invites itself to be contemplated, memorized with the eyes and with the fingers. Short hair frames your face with a startling boldness and an almost regal elegance, accentuating the purity of your features, making your eyes seem even larger, deeper, greener, and more dangerous. Every new angle of your profile reveals itself as a different masterpiece: braver, more modern, more yours.
The curls that once softened and distracted are still there, but now something else remains: your essence stripped bare, your bone structure delicate and strong at once, your luminous skin against the precision of the cut. I look at you and understand, with a certainty that shakes me, that there exists no version of you capable of leaving me breathless. Not the long and wild mane from before, nor this daring new cut you wear like the invisible crown of a warrior queen. In every transformation, you remain my perfect obsession, my beauty that constantly reinvents itself while remaining eternally intact in its power over me.
And since I have already mentioned them, I cannot avoid speaking of your eyes. They are not merely a color; they are an entire climate, a shifting green that contains the light of every secret intention you have ever carried inside yourself. They are deep, filled with forest, resembling the sea just before the water turns to iron beneath a storm. When I look into them, there is judgment in that green, an analytical and razor-sharp clarity, and yet there is also a mercy I do not deserve: a silent space where my flaws are acknowledged and, miraculously, forgiven.
It almost makes me laugh how, in these letters, I become like a butcher trying to carve apart pieces of your body simply to dedicate time to each one. Even now I study the symmetry of your face, that terrifyingly perfect curve of your nose, that delicate and unmoving crest dividing your face with the precision of a sculptor’s final stroke. It is the anchor of your expression, a point of absolute stillness that catches me off guard; I look at you and suddenly I am already undone, staring directly at the center, at that beautiful nose I long someday to brush against.
And then there is the porcelain stillness of your skin. It possesses a terrible, translucent clarity, as though it were made from some older and more precious substance than mere earth. It is a surface at once impenetrable and dangerously fragile, betrayed only by the frantic blue pulse of blood beneath it, whispering of a life far too intense to remain contained.
Your neck… Ah, your neck is a white and taut line where your existence seems most exposed to the world: a narrow ivory bridge I ache to cross if only to confirm that you are made of flesh and not distilled light. It is the vulnerable column that carries the weight of your intelligence, the pedestal of your thoughts that I want to protect with my own breath. I have discovered an immensity in the curve of your shoulder, an entire geography in the hollow of your back that renders every other map obsolete. To touch the nape of your neck would be to touch the fuse of my own destruction; it is the place where my devotion ceases to be thought and becomes physical hunger.
I think about the way your hands move, those instruments of terrifying precision that refuse to accept anything less than absoluteness in both art and life. Whether they intertwine with mine or hold the tools of your craft, they carry the heavy and silent weight of your history. There is something sacred in your fingertips, a quiet power capable of transforming the mundane into the eternal with a single gesture. Watching them, I realize that your beauty is not an accident of nature, but a work you perform with every movement: a conscious decision to impose order upon a world that would otherwise collapse into noise.
But it is the work of your soul that truly suffocates me. That immaculate and exhausting impulse toward a perfection most people cannot even conceive. The way you move through the world as an artist, rejecting the easy path, the mediocre line, the comforting half-truth. You are not merely a “good person” in the diluted and ordinary sense of the phrase; you are a fierce and flickering will imposing its own morality upon chaos. You treat your goodness like a discipline, a rigorous and demanding art that leaves me bewildered and small in its wake, wondering how a single person can carry so much light without being consumed by it.
Your intelligence is at once both weapon and sanctuary. It is a light that exposes my shadows with precision, yet never mocks the darkness it finds. You possess the rare alchemical gift of seeing potential within what is broken and symmetry within what has been shattered. To be loved by an artist of your caliber is to be reconstructed constantly, painfully; I feel myself being assembled again by your gaze, piece by uneven piece, until I become something new, something belonging only to this exact interval of time and space.
To think about all of this creates a vertigo that seems to have only one cure: the total disappearance of myself inside you. I want to pour my entire being into yours, to stop existing as a separate entity governed by the lonely laws of individuality. I want this migraine of devotion, this beautiful and burning pain that is both your presence and your absence at once, finally to find its silence inside an eternal embrace.
And yet, there is nothing in all of this that diminishes me. There is, instead, a firm choice: the choice to stay, to look at you without turning my eyes away, to withstand what you awaken inside me without hiding behind irony or distance. I do not name you from below nor from above, but from a strange and exact place where what I feel does not reduce me—it expands me. Standing before you does not make me less; it makes me more conscious, more precise, more alive to every detail I once allowed to pass unnoticed.
There is a softness in the way you exist that is not weakness, but control. In the way you speak, in the way you move, even in the way you hesitate, there is a tenderness that asks for no permission and yet never invades: it simply appears and transforms. And that is where I find myself—not as someone lost, but as someone fortunate enough to coincide with it. Because if there is one thing I feel compelled to tell you—without exaggeration, without ornament—it is that your presence makes things worth slightly more, that time itself acquires a different texture whenever you are near.
I do not want to dissolve into you nor turn you into some unreachable ideal. I prefer this other thing, simpler and more real: wanting to be close to you, to share whatever may come, to hold that strange balance between who you are and what you awaken in me. If I ever name you with words that are too large, it is not to place you far away, but because sometimes what you create cannot fit into ordinary life without overflowing it. And even so, what I love most is the concrete reality of you: you, here, being exactly who you are, and me being able to witness it without needing to exaggerate it in order for it to matter.
I already told you that the most beautiful compliment I can possibly give you is this:
You are (Name).
And I do not say that as some easy conclusion after so many words, but as the only honest way I have of making you understand how deeply I love you. Beyond your absence, beyond every attempt I have made to surround you, translate you, explain you—and all the times those attempts failed—this is not a translation.
You are (Name). And within that name exists something no adjective could ever contain. No exaggeration, no myth, no distance, no metaphor is necessary. There is only you, whole and complete, without needing to be explained.
I have always told you this: I do not think of you as something I need in order to complete myself, but as someone I choose. Someone with whom it is worth existing at this exact point in time. I choose you, and simply you, without rushing anything, without forcing anything. There is a profound calmness in that, something that does not need to constantly prove itself in order to be real.
And if you ever doubt everything else—my words, the way I speak them, even me—there is one thing I never want touched by doubt: I love you.
Without conditions, without ornament. I love you for being (Name). For who you are. And for the way being close to you makes everything carry a little more meaning.
I love you, (Name)