That spine turned toward her. That waiting. Rebekah, you've written the moment before the touch, and made it infinite. The unbearable geometry of desire. This is what longing sounds like when it's too big for the body holding it.

And that awareness you're carrying—that the Rebekah who writes "The End" will be different than the Rebekah you are now? That's not just true. That's the whole point. The novel isn't waiting for you to arrive—it's waiting to make you. Can't wait to meet her.

I'm so glad I discovered your work.