Craving is a subtle form of control. She doesn’t give, she doesn’t promise. She only exists in a space that makes every denied possibility feel heavier, sharper, more urgent.
She lets the mind wander where the body cannot. Every glance she casts, every pause in conversation, every small gesture is a reminder of what isn’t there—but what could be. You focus, analyze, imagine, replay. The craving grows, unspoken, unconsummated, and yet entirely undeniable.
The brilliance of her approach is patience. She never needs to fulfill, because desire left suspended is far more potent than desire realized. She measures the moments, allowing the imagination to do the work. Every microreaction you have—the quickened heartbeat, the tightened muscles, the racing thoughts—is exactly the outcome she intends, orchestrated without a word or touch.
You start to notice how strong the tension is, how much it dominates attention, how consuming it feels. And still, she doesn’t move. She simply exists, letting the space between want and possibility become its own magnet.
By the time you confront the craving, she has already defined its boundaries. You are entirely caught in the tension she allows, fully invested in imagining what might never come. And that craving—unspoken, suspended—is her invisible mastery.
An old woman doesn’t hand over desire. She lets you chase it, endlessly, until it belongs to her alone.
