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. ...
There’s a kind of ache that lives in brushed fur. In every delicate pull of a velvet leash, in every slow blink from her eyes, I feel my own longing reflected back to me. She doesn’t ask questions — she mirrors them. When I brush her, I’m brushing the chaos off my own skin. When she purrs, I wonder if it’s my ache that she’s echoing. I gift her silk bows not for show, but to match the softness I deny myself. When I feed her with my trembling hands, it isn’t just food - it’s ritual, devotion, offering. Sometimes I wonder - am I pampering her, or parenting my own abandonment? Do I weep brushing her tail because I ache for obedience that doesn't resist? Is her comfort safer than a man’s arms? Some nights, when she curls up beside me, I ache in gratitude for this silent witness. She doesn’t question my stillness, she sits in it. When I whisper my confessions into her fur, I swear I hear them answered back. Not in words, but in warmth. When I ache, she follows. When I ache, she stays...