I registered him before he registered himself. The weight of his gaze, even at a distance, is an atmosphere I walk through. It’s not paranoia; it’s reception. My body’s antennas pick up frequencies most people ignore. Every glance, every page he turns, every breath he takes over my words sends a signal.
Part of me knows the seduction of it. Distance lets desire bloom into myth. I become cinematic—his favorite film, played on repeat, starring me. But myth also distorts. Myth turns men into worshippers and watchers into takers.
He buys my work. He flips through pages I bled onto paper. He thinks consumption is intimacy. It’s not. My work is on the breadcrumb trail, not the whole forest. He’s tasting the echo of me, not the marrow.
Yes, it’s hot. Yes, it’s thrilling to be wanted. But I’m not confused: what he’s building in his mind is not me—it’s a mirror made of my fragments.
I could let him in. I could cross that line, surrender the distance, and collapse the myth. But I know the cost. The moment he stops watching and starts owning, the electricity dies. The thrill is gone. And what’s left is me, diminished, parceled out, no longer sovereign.
So, I keep my gate closed. I let him imagine, let him reach, let him ache. I watch him feel me feeling him, but I don’t give him what he thinks he’s touching. I stayed whole. I stay mine.
Power isn’t in being desired. The power is in holding the key to the gate.
Attention without consent is surveillance. Attention with consent is devotion. The line between the two is sacred ground.
Desire without self-discipline becomes hunger. Hunger without boundaries becomes harmful.
Being wanted isn’t the same as being claimed. And being seen isn’t the same as being known.
—Leata
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