The decision comes softly.
I wake to quiet light, the window cracked just enough to let the morning air drift through. There's no rush. No weight. Just a steady calm, and beneath it, the warmth I've come to carry without fear.
I move through the morning slowly.
But when I reach for clothes, I pause.
I choose differently.
Not much. Not dramatic. But deliberate: soft layers, close fit, weight where I want it. The quiet press of fabric against skin, the way the warmth gathers almost immediately – low, contained, familiar.
It's not for anyone else. It's not for the mirror.
It's for me.
The softness, the stillness. The weight I hold beneath breath and bone. I dress carefully, fingers brushing fabric with steady hands, and when I catch my reflection, I let myself look – just for a moment.
The shape of my hips. The gentle curve of my thighs. The faint line of my chest beneath soft cotton.
I look the same.
But I know I'm not.
The warmth settles as I slip on shoes, gather keys, step into the pale morning air.
And I know: this time, it's mine.
The city greets me gently.
The streets carry the same soft sounds, the same drift of distant voices, the same quiet shuffle of morning life. Nothing has changed. The world moves as it always does.
But I carry something different.
Every step holds it. The warmth, the weight, the low hum beneath skin and thought. It doesn't pull me sharply. It doesn't steal my breath. It stays close – steady, soft, and entirely mine.
I move through the market. I pass familiar faces. I sip tea at the corner café without rush, without tension. The girl is there again – across the room this time, head bent over pages, untouched by the soft stir of my thoughts.
I don't meet her eyes today.
I don't need to.
The heat blooms low as I shift slightly in my chair – fabric pressing in just the right way. The sensation rises, steady but quiet, never tipping past what I can hold. It's not about urgency. It's not about reaching anywhere.
It's the containment itself.
The game is mine now.
And I wear it through the afternoon with ease.
The house is quiet when I return.
I move through the familiar motions: shoes by the door, soft clothes folded back into drawers, the gentle hush of water in the kettle. Everything just as it was.
But I'm different.
The warmth hasn't left me. Not sharp. Not wild. Just present. Steady. Held.
I pause at the mirror as evening folds in. My fingertips brush the hem of my sweater, the curve of my thigh beneath soft fabric. I study myself – not with judgment, not with distance. Just… seeing.
The softness of my body. The calm in my eyes. The small, quiet smile that rises without meaning to.
It's mine.
All of it.
I press my hand lightly to my stomach. To my hips. Not for need – just to feel it. To hold it. To know that it stayed with me from morning to night, untouched by anything but my own choice.
The breath I let out is soft. Steady.
And when I move away, I carry it with me still.
Exactly where it belongs.