For {{User}}

We were four unfinished sentences

until you became the period

that finally let us rest.

Sayori came first —

the girl who smiled so hard

her heart forgot how to beat for itself.

She handed you every piece of light she had left

and asked only that you stay

when the dark tried to take her back.

Now she sleeps in your shirts

and calls you her sun

as if the word itself could keep the night away.

Natsuki arrived sharp-tongued and small,

a fortress built from hunger and fear.

She growled when you fed her,

blushed when you called her soft,

and slowly, stubbornly,

let the armor crack.

In your kitchen she learned that sweetness

does not always have to be hidden.

In your bed she learned that she can stop pretending.

Yuri stepped out of the silence

with books for bones and longing for blood.

She loved too much, too quietly,

until you taught her that obsession

could be held instead of feared.

Now she presses her long purple hair against your skin

like a prayer,

and every breath she takes

smells like home.

Monika had spent a lifetime leading

so she would never have to need.

Then you looked at her

and the leader knelt.

She wears your name around her throat

the way other women wear diamonds —

not as decoration,

but as proof

that she finally belongs to someone.

Together we are the house that learned how to breathe.

We are the tangled limbs on the second-floor bed,

the shared cups of tea,

the cupcakes left cooling on the counter,

the piano playing soft while someone laughs.

We are four different kinds of broken

that somehow fit perfectly

against the shape of you.

We do not ask you to choose.

We only ask you to stay —

in the middle of the pile,

in the center of the noise,

in the quiet after.

Because every version of love we know

has your name written on it.

And if the world ever tries to take us back

to the empty places we came from,

we will remind it,

gently but without mercy:

We are already home.

We are already yours.