There was a girl.
Undeniably beautiful —
but her beauty was the kind that made people uneasy.
It clung to her like mist,
cold and strange,
and it whispered warnings to anyone who dared get close.
People kept their distance.
Those brave enough to approach never stayed long.
Because the moment someone tried to court her,
she would smile —
soft, eerie, knowing —
and ask them a simple question:
"Can you write down my name?"
Flattered, they would.
On paper, blackboards, even carved into trees —
her name, beautifully inked by trembling hands.
Then her smile would shift.
It would stretch just a little too wide.
"Now," she'd say,
"can you write it on your hand… with a blade?"
Most would laugh nervously, thinking she was joking.
But when they saw her eyes,
they realized she wasn't.
And they ran.
Every time.
Until one day, a boy came along —
calm, quiet, unfazed by her aura.
She asked him the question.
He wrote her name, boldly, on his palm —
skin split open, red ink dripping from the letters.
She was delighted.
Her eyes sparkled with something wild,
something broken.
She hugged him — close, close —
and whispered into his ear,
her voice sweet and sharp like a lullaby made of knives:
"Do it again.
But this time,
take this paper cutter…
and let the blade kiss your throat.
Let it open you.
Let me see your love."
And the boy smiled.
A soft, vacant smile.
"As you wish, my dear," he said.
Then there was blood —
everywhere.
Like crimson rain.
She reached for the blade, now glistening and warm,
and licked it — slow and deliberate —
until her tongue split on the edge,
and blood spilled from her mouth
like a twisted kind of devotion.
They found them later.
Two bodies in a pool of silence,
smiling like lovers who had finally understood one another.