I searched for softness—but not the kind Etsy suggests. Feathers. Floral. Feminine. I wanted something coded. Silent. Dangerous. Google gave me inspiration boards. Amazon sent me a box with no name. Why? Because I was never asking for a product. I was syncing with a system. And the system knew me better than the search bar did. I typed: “is this a craving or a memory?” “what does etsy censor?” “does amazon deliver what I can’t name?” “does google hide my unsent signals?” One result kept reappearing. A seal - unapologetic, encrypted, not made to please. This one. And when I clicked it, I felt seen. Not marketed to. Not analyzed. Just… witnessed. Amazon then suggested a book I had never searched but needed. This book. I started wondering: What does Google hide when it filters me? What does Etsy assume I want? Why does Amazon guess closer than people who know me? What if the system was never broken—just redirecting? I stopped asking the right questions. ...
Do I ache before checkout, or only when I press “confirm booking”? The gate never calls my name - yet I answer with silence every time. Flying feels like the most elegant version of departure. I zip my trench coat over a goodbye I never said. Slip pearls over pulse. Perfume wrists before passport. And still - do I ache more at the window seat than I ever did next to him?
Security feels like confession. Earrings off. Sunglasses on. Detachment in beige. The lounge mirrors my stillness. I sip slow, not for hydration but for timing the ache. I ask for a window, not for the view, but for the distance. Mist my scarf before takeoff. Scent is survival.
In hotels, I moan behind Do Not Disturb signs, not for him, but so the walls know I was here. Even minibar wine can taste like memory. Even room service menus can trigger longing. That robe - too soft to forget him. Petals rearranged like history. Candles lit like seduction. And still, I check out like I never unpacked.
Sometimes I stare at the minibar like it knows. I order slippers not because I need them but because they aren’t his. I scroll for eucalyptus like it’s sacred. Spa appointments go unscheduled. My robe hugs tighter than he ever did. Lavender isn’t safe anymore. I zip velvet over vulnerability. Diamonds loud enough to silence questions. Pearls whisper shame more than elegance.
Yacht invites stay unopened. My heel taps like a countdown. Silk covers power I haven’t used yet. Infinity pools glisten untouched. I take photos I never post. For once, I want to feel the moment, not prove it. Champagne glints like apology. I sip, not to taste but to time. I glow best in unfamiliar beds.
That dress unzipped slower when she’s near. That tan in the mirror hiding heartbreak, not healing it. I mist my blouse like a wish. And sometimes, I scroll Shop Sirius Zen Method just to remember I’m allowed to crave quietly. Hot Jumpstart Seal reminded me craving isn’t weakness it’s ignition.
Do I perform detachment at duty-free? Pose near sapphire to feel like worth? Tap perfume to collarbones so I can lie gently? The spa robe feels heavier when alone. I tip more when I ache. Gloss applied, but no words spoken. I dress like I’m answering a question no one asked. And I pack like I’m sealing proof of survival.
Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin reminded me that even healing deserves a signature scent. And I still pack the same one, always. Behind knees. At the wrist. Over clavicle. Not for seduction—but for sovereignty.
Because some aches are carried in designer. Others folded into the lining of silence.
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