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Girls don’t cry. They get what they want.

It was said that wanting too much was how the monster got in, how greed slipped its hands around your legs and pulled you under without you noticing. But she… she never quite believed that.

Not at first.

She never asked for much in the beginning, just a small corner of the world where her thoughts could settle, where she could count with each finger the reasons a poet might write; to say what cannot be said out loud, to remember, to forget, to feel less alone, to understand themselves in a world that rarely makes sense.

But then she realized that the greatest poets were dead, and she was just a girl made of skin and breath.

And then, the infinite wanting began.

The reckless sensation to feel alive, the trembling before the strike, the gasp before the fall. The adrenaline that sent her heart pounding against her ribs, that made her chest feel too small for the life inside her. The burn in her lungs, that exquisite ache of running toward something she could not name but craved.

She wanted it all: the beautiful, the forbidden, the dangerous shimmer of things that whispered her name but they were never meant to be hers. The thin line between lust and love, between needs and desires, between danger and truth

Especially then.

And maybe that was her vice, this hunger for the edge, this need to feel something worthy enough to chase her out of her own head.

It was said that the heart is a fragile house, and too much wanting rattles the windows, loosens the floorboards, invites winds you cannot predict.

But this was also her freedom, the ink flowing through her veins. Her heart was built on yearning, not walls and it left space for her hunger to grow. Proof that wanting, even when it overflows, means the soul is still reaching, still dreaming, still refusing to go numb.