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 ...