A letter to my most loved,
I cannot write your name here, so I will call you by the numbers only we understand.
I remember the first time I saw you on stage. I had gone there with a mind trained to observe mechanisms, and because my mother had forced me to accompany her.. Timing, structure, the precision of lights and sound. I was certain that whatever moved me would be technical: The engineering, the machinery, the design behind the spectacle.
But then you stepped forward. In that instant, every calculation failed me. The world reduced itself to a single focal point— You. Your presence overrode every system in the room. The way you carried emotion so effortlessly, the way you transformed space with nothing but your voice and movement— For it was not machinery that captivated me. It was you. Not just skilled. Not merely compelling. But profoundly, irreplaceably beautiful.
O3, I have always wanted you. Not with the impulsiveness of a spark, but with the steady certainty of a design that fits perfectly into place. The kind of knowing that feels engineered by fate itself. From that first night, you became the axis around which my thoughts quietly turn. Every smile, every conversation, every shared silence since then has only confirmed my first conclusion; You are rare beyond measure, and I cherish you more deeply than any creation I could ever build.
As an inventor, I have spent my life trying to understand how things work. Yet you remain my most beautiful mystery. The way you inhabit a character so fully, the way you move with intention, the way you light up a room without wires or circuits— It defies explanation. Loving you feels less like a decision and more like gravity. I could not resist it even if I tried.
I still carry the image of you from that first performance I saw— The spark in your eyes brighter than any filament I have ever designed. Meeting you was not an event; It was a turning point. A recalibration of everything I thought I understood about brilliance.
You mean more to me than any words I can draft, any blueprint I can draw, any machine I could ever hope to construct. And though language may fail me, I will spend my life attempting to express what you are to me.
Forever willing to be yours, O11.