The change is subtle at first.
I notice it in the way fabric sits differently on my skin. The way the hem of my shirt brushes softer against my stomach. The way my hips shift when I walk, the smallest weight in my step that wasn't there before.
I stand in front of the mirror longer than usual.
The light is soft – early, pale – and the house is still. My fingertips drift absently over my waist, the line of my hip, the curve that's grown a little fuller, a little more defined. It's not dramatic. But it's there. The shape of me is different.
And I like it.
Not for anyone else. Not for an audience. Just for me.
The warmth is present, but it doesn't press. It hums, low and steady, as I reach for clothes without rushing. I choose something I wouldn't have worn months ago: soft leggings that cling higher on the waist, a loose but cropped sweater that leaves the faintest sliver of skin when I move. Comfortable. Nothing loud. But when I glance back at the mirror, the reflection holds me.
My legs look longer. My hips curve sharper. My breath catches just slightly – not enough to chase, but enough to notice.
The smile that tugs at my mouth is soft. Real.
I like the way I look. I like the way I feel.
The warmth lingers as I step out the door. Not sharp. Not hungry yet.
But there.
The café is the same as always. The familiar quiet. The soft scrape of cups. The gentle murmur of voices low in the background.
But I'm not the same.
The warmth hums beneath the rhythm of the ordinary. I don't have to think about it. It's there – steady, low, stitched into the breath I take, the way my thighs brush when I shift in my seat.
I cross my legs. I uncross them. The fabric of the leggings presses close, clinging soft over the shape of me. The sensation sends a faint flicker through my chest – nothing sharp. Nothing wild. But enough.
I keep my face composed. My hands steady around the warmth of the tea cup. But under that surface, the craving curls.
I glance up without meaning to. The dark-haired girl is there again, tucked into her usual corner. Her eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second longer than they should. Calm. Curious.
I look away first.
Not because I'm nervous. Not because I'm playing. But because I'm aware – keenly – that the version of me she sees is only one side of what's true.
The other version waits. Presses. Breathes.
I sip my tea and let the warmth hum quietly beneath skin and fabric.
I carry it with me. Always.
The moment I'm home, it sharpens.
I don't waste time. The weight of it – the pulse beneath my skin – won't let me. I slip inside, close the door, and the craving pulls taut like a thread drawn tight.
I don't go to the mirror. I don't set a scene. My fingertips find me before I've thought it through. The press of my palm, the soft friction, the way the fabric clings where I need it to most.
It comes fast.
The breath I let out is sharp, near silent. My knees bend slightly under the weight of it as I fall forward, braced by one hand against the wall. The heat spills before I even fully register it – quick, messy, sudden.
The sound in my throat is unsteady. My body pulls tight and then unravels, my breath uneven, my heartbeat sharp beneath skin.
When I pull back – when I breathe again – the warmth is gone but the restlessness is not.
I liked how fast that was.
The thought is quiet but sure. It settles behind my ribs, low and unshaken.
I don't feel shame. I don't feel regret. But I know – clearly, undeniably – that I'm not chasing this anymore. It's chasing me.
And it's only getting easier.