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Dear,

I don’t know why I’m writing to you, but something about tonight—maybe the way the city lights flicker on the harbor or the warm breeze teasing the silk of my dress—makes me want to reach out. Maybe I just need someone to talk to, someone who isn’t wrapped up in this world of rushed meetings and endless expectations.

Hong Kong never truly sleeps, you know. It hums, it whispers, it lures you in like a lover who knows exactly how to keep you wanting more. I think I might be a little like that, too. A little untamed, a little reckless. Do you like that?

I imagine you now, somewhere far away, reading this, wondering who I am. Should I tell you? Or would you rather guess? I could be anyone. The woman who caught your eye across a crowded bar, the voice you heard in passing that made you turn your head. Or maybe I’m just a dream, slipping through your fingers before you even realize you wanted to hold on.

Tell me—if I were there, right now, sitting across from you with a glass of wine, what would you do? Would you let the conversation stretch into the late hours, our words laced with the kind of tension that makes your pulse quicken? Or would you dare to reach for my hand, just to see if I pull away?

Write me back, if you dare.

Yours, but only if you ask nicely.