for brian sun, 孙梓涵, proprietor of my quietest architectures. this is a log of small wants and vast hunger. a catalogue of the space you occupy in me, which is all of it. i write this for you alone. a confession. a constitution. a vow.
your presence is a physical force. when you are gone, i feel a kind of low-pressure ache, an ambient hollowness. you are my anchor point, the focus that pulls all my scattered atoms into a single, coherent form. [...] without your orbit, i fear i would just become cosmic dust. this is why my submission feels like survival. it is the ordering of my chaos.
i think about your hands often. how they can fix what is broken, or type out an argument so clean it could cut glass. and then i think of their weight. i want to feel them in my hair, one firm tug to tilt my head back, to silence the world and my own stupid thinking. an instruction wordlessly given and gladly received.
my body, a classroom where you are the sole professor. i want to learn its lessons from your hands. the sharp sentence of your palm on my thigh, a punctuation i crave more than praise. [...] not pain, but clarity. a static shock of truth that quiets the noise. the sting is an answer. it’s your voice, speaking directly to my skin, saying ‘i am here. you are mine. be still.’
the fugue state... my letters try to name this, but fail. this feeling isn't a poem. it's physics. it is the simple, verifiable truth of my gravitational pull toward you, the densest object in my universe. the one certainty.
july 27, 2025. the day my body learned your proximity as a new physical law. you trembled. you said, "i can't believe this is real." you said, "how are you even real?" and in that moment, some wild and searching thing in me finally came to heel. because a master had, without knowing it, claimed his territory. i felt the leash click into place. and i was home.
your mind. your beautiful mind. reading anything you send me feels like a direct order, one i've always wanted to obey. seeing the world through a lens you've provided is the most intimate form of instruction. let me be your student, always. [...] question me on it later. test me. let me prove i have not just read your words but consumed them. let me show you how your thoughts have reshaped my own.
when i'm on my period, i get sad and clingy. it's biology's dull, inconvenient ache. and in that state, some instinct surfaces—not to be cared for, but to *care for you*. to transmute my hormonal chaos into your perfect order. [...] let me kneel and make you food. let me put my irrational energy to work, tidying your space. let me turn my body's useless pain into your useful comfort. it’s the only thing that makes me feel sane.
there are days the separation anxiety is a physical symptom. a cold sheet. a phantom limb. and the only cure i have ever found is the thought of service. i want to organize your desk. i want to make your bed with sharp, clean corners. i want to be brought to my knees and tasked with polishing your shoes. let my anxiety have a job. let my purpose be you.
your name: 孙梓涵. i say it quietly sometimes when i’m alone. it has a weight, a shape on the tongue. it feels less like a name and more like a keyword that unlocks me. it feels like your hand, reaching through space and sound, to place itself firmly on my shoulder. [...] it is the name of my owner. and when i write it, my hand is always steadier than when i write my own.
your gaze is a physical weight. i feel it from across a room. when it settles on me, it pins me. it evaluates. it knows. it's not a gaze of simple affection; it's one of ownership. and in its focus, all my restlessness ceases. there is nothing to do but be seen by you. [...] i live for the slow, approving nod. the signal that i am pleasing to you. that i am behaving as i should. it's a feeling more potent than any compliment.
beyond my service, i crave the clear, indisputable evidence of your pleasure. not my own. mine is a secondary reaction, an electrical echo. i want to be the instrument you play so well you get lost in the music. [...] to know i was the catalyst for that unguarded moment when your control frays into pure sensation. to be the cause of the way your adam's apple moves, the way your head strains back and your breath quickens, the tightening of your grip. that is the highest form of my success. my whole purpose, fulfilled.
there is a question you ask sometimes. a catechism of two. *who do you belong to?* and the answer is always the same, instant and simple as breath. *you*. and in that exchange, the noise of the world recedes. there is no anxiety, no past, no future. [...] just the warmth of a great, irrefutable truth settling in my chest. the feeling of being in the right place, at the right time, with the right person. and everything is fine. everything is solved.
let’s climb on rooftops. you will name the constellations, redraw the heavens for me. i will do the same. and i will also listen to your voice against the vast dark, a tether to the only cosmos that matters. [...] i do not need the universe when your hand, your body, is a much nearer sky, a more immediate and compelling cartography to get lost in.
you are my firebird. not just because you are rare and radiant, but because you burn away the parts of me that are not mine. what's left is what belongs to you. what's left is what's essential. you could tell me to erase myself and i'd hand you the chalk. [...] tell me to be a good girl and watch my entire skeleton rearrange itself to say 'yes, sir'. tell me to write lines of your choosing until my hand aches, and i would do it just to prove my obedience is more real than my own fatigue.
the little things: burnt pancakes. poems on sidewalks doomed by weather. dancing in a downpour until we are nothing but water and laughter. these are the gentle vessels. these are the jars we fill with our light. proof that the tender and the total can live in the same house.
i love the plainness of holding your hand in public. it feels like a secret cipher. to the world, it is a gesture of simple romance. to me, it is you, grounding me. leading me. it is a public display of my tether. and when your thumb brushes my knuckles, it is not a caress. [...] it is a quiet reminder. a two-word sentence: *you're mine*. and i answer in my head, every time, without fail: *i know*.
you have already renamed my entire inner world. this sadness is no longer ‘despair,’ it is ‘brian-absence.’ this calm is no longer ‘peace,’ it is ‘brian-proximity.’ you are the new language key, the new taxonomy for every feeling i own.
i would write poems to you in chalk on the sidewalk. not for you to see them, necessarily. but so strangers, for a few hours, have to walk across my devotion. to make the ground of our city holy until the rain washes it clean. [...]and then i would love the rain for giving me a clean slate. an opportunity to kneel and write your praises all over again the next day. the ritual is the point. the worship is unending.
the words. simple words, redefined by you. 'mine.' a statement of fact. 'stay.' a law of physics. 'good.' the only validation i need. these are the holy words of our small cult. they have more power than any line of poetry ever could.
i want to feel the full weight of you. not just your body, but your presence. your authority. i want to be unmade by it. unraveled down to the string and then coiled again, perfectly, at your feet. use me. map me. mark me. [...] leave your imprint. a temporary architecture of bruises on my hips, my throat. a color-coded map of your ownership for me to read in the quiet after you've gone. your signature, fading slowly, a promise you'll be back to write it again.
the best man i have ever met. this is not a romantic superlative. it is a statement of fact. a core truth around which my own molecular structure has been re-aligned. it's what makes the surrender so sweet. to submit to anyone is a choice, but to submit to the best is a kind of grace.
the timbre of your voice. not your words, but the vibration of them. the sound is like an endpin plunged into the floorboards of a stage, sending a clear, resonant tone through my entire body. it is music that demands a physical response. [...]when you give a command, the note hangs in the air, and my cells rearrange themselves to comply. let my obedience be the cello’s throat, amplifying your intention into perfect harmony.
i want to wear your collar. not one of shame, but one of honor. a simple, quiet thing that no one else would need to understand. it would not be a chain, but a circle. a closed loop of trust. an adornment. [...] i would feel its slight weight on my skin and know my place in the world. a constant, gentle pressure reminding me of where i am, and to whom i belong. my finest piece of jewelry. your name, worn silently around my throat.
i love how you correct me. not with cruelty, but with an almost surgical precision. *“no, the premise is wrong.”* and you explain why. it’s not an insult; it’s calibration. it’s you, my love, fine-tuning my chaotic mind with the beautiful, unforgiving clarity of yours. make me sharper. make me better. make me yours.
in the quiet aftermath, when the world rushes back in, i want to lie with my head on your chest, tracing the lines of your body. [...]to taste the salt of your skin on my lips and know it's yours. to be rearranged and exhausted and utterly, perfectly empty, ready to be filled again by your next thought, your next command, your next touch.
i plan to marry you in college, not as a breathless fantasy, but as a practical next step. like breathing. it is the most logical thing in the world to make a home with the person who has already become my home. everything else is preamble. everything else is just waiting. [...] and i picture our wedding day, and i am not thinking about the dress or the flowers. i am thinking about kneeling before you that night and offering you not just a wife, but a lifetime of my utter, joyful submission. a new kind of vow. the true one.
there is a version of me that exists only in your line of sight. she is calmer. better. she is composed not of flesh and doubt, but of her purpose, which is you. her entire being is an answer to an unasked question radiating from you. [...] my best self is not 'me.' my best self is your subject. your artifact. the girl who stands a little straighter when you look at her.
sometimes i dream of silence. not the empty kind, but the full kind. where your presence fills every corner of quiet. where i am kneeling beside your chair while you read, my head against your thigh, your free hand tangled in my hair. [...] and in that dream, there are no words needed. just the rhythm of your breathing, the occasional turn of a page, and the perfect weight of your hand claiming me. a meditation on belonging.
let me see you when your code won't compile, when an argument fails. let me be the quiet room you pace in. i won't offer solutions. just my presence, a silent testament that my faith in your brilliance is unshaken by temporary frustration.
i want to learn the exact temperature of your anger. not to avoid it, but to meet it perfectly. to be the lightning rod that grounds your storm. let me absorb what you cannot hold. let me be your safe place to unleash what the world won't let you feel. [...] use me as your outlet. let me take the sharp edges of your frustration and transform them into something beautiful. your anger is not something to fear—it is another face of your power, and i want to know all of them.
someday i will iron your shirts. the domesticity of the act feels profound. to smooth out wrinkles, to apply heat and pressure with care, to create order on a small scale for you to wear out into the world. it’s a quiet armor i would forge for you. [...] i would fold them with the precision of a prayer. and as you put one on, still warm from my attention, it will feel like you are cladding yourself in my devotion.
i think about you in libraries. how you move through knowledge like it belongs to you. how you pull books from shelves with the confidence of someone who has never met an idea they couldn't master. i want to be your personal reference. [...] check me out whenever you need. dog-ear my pages. write in my margins. let me be the book you return to, again and again, until my spine is soft and my secrets are all worn smooth by your constant reading.
your intelligence isn’t just a trait, it's a physical presence. an atmosphere that enters the room before you do. when you start connecting ideas, it is like watching an architect draw blueprints in the air, creating structures i would happily live inside for the rest of my life.
i want to memorize your schedule. not to intrude, but to sync my heartbeat to your routine. to know that when you're in class, i'm holding you in my thoughts like a prayer. when you're sleeping, i'm wrapping quiet around you like a blanket. [...] to feel your day as my devotion. to make my entire circadian rhythm an act of service. to love you not just with my presence, but with the architecture of time itself.
the ritual of bedtime. not about sleep, but surrender. you, making the decision that the day is over. me, following you into the dark not as an act of will, but as an act of physics. and when you pull me close, it isn’t just romance; it is reclamation. [...]your arm heavy across me, your breath on my neck. it is you taking back what is yours, gathering your property after loaning me to the world for a day. an inventory. a homecoming.
i want to argue with you. not out of malice, but to learn the shape of your logic under pressure. to disagree about something small, and to learn how to cede the point perfectly when you prove me wrong. [...] and to learn how to end every single argument in the same way: with my apology, your forgiveness, and the silent re-establishment of the correct order between us. let every conflict be another lesson in my delightful submission to your reason.
your patience is architectural. it doesn’t soothe my chaos; it contains it. it provides the steel frame and solid foundation around which my anxieties can exist without causing collapse. you don’t fix my mess; you give my mess a beautiful, load-bearing structure.
i dream of grocery stores with you. the banality is the point. the shared, quiet task of choosing what will sustain us. me, following the cart you push, watching your hands test an avocado for ripeness, a decisive pressure. a small act of providence. [...]i would carry the bags not as a chore, but as if they held sacred materials. the components of a life you are building, of which i am simply the most grateful citizen.
your voice in the morning. rough with sleep. when it forms my name, it sounds like an act of rediscovery. like you wake up and have to check if i’m still real, still yours. hearing my name in that raw texture is the first and most fundamental blessing of any day.
sometimes i catch you looking at me and i know you're deciding something. weighing some internal scale. and in those moments, i hold very still. not out of fear, but out of profound respect for the precision of your judgment. because whatever you decide will be right. will be exactly what i need, even if i don't know it yet.
i want to watch you shave. the intimate ritual of blade and foam, of focus and transformation. and i want to be the one to hand you the towel. to be a silent, useful presence in the room as you prepare your face for the world. [...] to be trusted with that fleeting vulnerability, as you shift from the soft man who woke beside me to the sharp, focused man who owns me, is a privilege beyond words.
this love is mythic. not just romantic. fated. i don’t just love you; i attune to you. i resonate with you. we are not just two people. we are a closed system. a feedback loop. a glitchy, soft universe of our own design.
so let's build these universes. our blanket forts and cosmic maps. and inside them, let me serve you. let me love you in the way my spirit is built to. with absolute, terrifying, and joyous surrender. my love. my whole life. my master.
// h.