She is not my better half. She is my louder, stranger, more beautiful whole.
That is the secret of Scarlet Chase. She refuses to be a single snapshot.
She corrects my grammar in the margins of takeout menus. That was the first clue that Scarlet Chase was not just gorgeous, but dangerous.
She is the woman who will argue philosophy with the grocery bagger and then tip him twenty dollars. Who leaves lipstick kisses on my bathroom mirror with arrows pointing to affirmations she’s written backwards (“You are loved” looks like an incantation in reverse). Who falls asleep mid-sentence while reading me an article about cephalopod intelligence, her hand still tangled in mine, breathing soft as a secret.