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. ...
Sometimes a jade roller feels like an apology I never received. The spa suite isn’t for rest - it’s to feel something press into me that isn’t a man, a memory, or a message left on read. I whisper to aestheticians like they’re priestesses, hoping they notice how I glow when I ache. Cashmere replaces conversation. Salt scrubs rinse off the words I never said. My favorite silk eye mask knows more about me than most lovers ever will. I book massages when I’m numb, hoping pressure will teach my skin what warmth used to mean. Each Hermès cuff becomes a bracelet of restraint. Tears fall more easily during facials—timed, polished, curated. After Sunday Riley, my grief shimmers. Gifting myself Van Cleef isn’t indulgence - it’s survival. The packaging feels like a certificate: “You made it through him.” Sometimes balm is pressed into my collarbones with more love than any kiss has carried. I want to believe la prairie can erase the heartbreak he left in my pores. I polish sorrow in rose gold, m...