I feel loose and heavy and alive in a way I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.
And it’s all because of him.
The way he touches me.
The way he looks at me.
Like I’m something worth taking his time over.
Like I’m not something he settled for.
Not something to rush through or get past.
I press my palms against the cool marble of his bathroom counter, staring at myself in the mirror—and it’s almost disorienting.
Because I know what I look like.
I’ve always known.
Soft.
Full.
Curves that don’t hide.
Skin that moves when I do.
And right now?
That same skin is flushed, marked in places where his hands lingered, where his mouth traced, where he held me like I was something he didn’t want to let go of.
And I—I don’t look wrong.
That’s the part that gets me.
Because I’ve spent years being told—sometimes outright, sometimes in those quiet, cutting ways that linger longer—that this body was something to fix.
Too much here.
Too soft there.
Too… something.
Never just right.
I have two sisters.
Tall. Thin. Effortless.
The kind of beautiful that doesn’t get questioned. The kind people expect. The kind my mother wears like a badge of honor.
They take after her.
Perfect posture. Perfect smiles. Perfect lives.
And me?
I’ve always felt like the outlier. The one who didn’t quite fit the mold no matter how hard I tried to squeeze myself into it.
