I can’t.
I can’t.
But the next thought follows right behind it, sharp and merciless.
You already did.
You already agreed. You already walked onto that stage and let the room decide what you’re worth.
I grab the edge of the table and bend forward, breathing through my nose because if I open my mouth, I might make a sound I can’t take back.
My dad’s face flashes in my mind. Tired smile. Kind eyes. The way he always tries to make it easier for me. The way he said, “We’ll figure it out,” even though his hands were shaking when he lifted his coffee cup.
Twenty thousand dollars.
This is for him.
That’s what I told myself.
This is for him.
I lift my head and stare at the baby doll. The white fabric might as well be a surrender flag.
My hands are trembling when I reach for the strap of my dress. I pause, fingers hovering over my chest, and my throat tightens again.
How does a person do this?
How does a person take off a dress in a room like this and put on something that makes them look like a gift? How does a person step into a costume designed to signal purity right before it’s taken?
My breath turns shallow. I force myself to slow down.
One thing at a time.
That’s how I’ve always handled panic. Break it into pieces small enough to swallow.
I turn my back to the mirror because I can’t watch myself do it. I can’t watch the girl in the champagne dress unmake herself.
The zipper slides down with a soft, traitorous sound.
Cool air touches my skin. Goosebumps rise along my arms and down my spine. The dress pools on the floor like liquid gold.
I stand there, no underwear because I wasn’t provided any, arms wrapped around myself, chest heaving. The room is too quiet. The hum of the air conditioning feels loud. I can feel time ticking away until I’m not alone anymore.
I glance at the door again, at the security shadow beyond it.
Protection.
Enforcement.
Safety.
Feeling insecure without any clothes, I pick up the baby doll.
The fabric is softer than it has any right to be. Thin. Light. Almost weightless. It feels like something you’d wear in a bedroom when you wanted to be adored, not… delivered.
My fingers fumble with the straps. My hands are clumsy, like they don’t belong to me.
I breathe in, then out.
