Questions She Asks

Posts

Should I Toast or Test?

The flute of champagne in my hand isn't about celebration. It’s positioning. I reach for the clutch is it full of secrets or just lipstick? The slit in my dress says I’ve healed, but the fabric still knows better. Is this neckline a distraction or a defense? My heels echo through the marble like I planned the acoustics. I post not for presence, but to be proof. I bought the ring the day I stopped asking for anything. Every quote I memorized, I perform with my collarbone. Old flames don’t burn in this lighting they shimmer behind my shoulder. I cross my legs, not for modesty but for dominance. There’s a way to walk into a room without saying anything—and leave it echoing in your shape. I wear satin not to soothe but to signal. Gossip echoes clearer when you blink slow and smile facing the exit. Sometimes, revenge is just being seen not staying. The champagne glass isn’t for the party it’s for the hand you didn’t hold. My dress isn’t red for love it’s red for remembering. The necklin...

Do I Ache Before Checkout

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 ...

Is Luxury My Ritual of Mourning?

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...

Do Pets Carry our Shame

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...

Do I Post to Heal or Haunt: Love, Silence, and the Game of Attention

Some days I dress like closure. Other days, I dress like the question he forgot to ask. I pick cafés we used to avoid. Order what he loved. Smile at the waiter just long enough for ghosts to sip with me. I post at 3am not because I’m awake, but because I want her to wonder why he’s not. Do I want him back? Or do I want him unsure? Do I crave peace, or do I ache for chaos I control? Every unread message is an altar. Every deleted photo, a prayer. Proto Soul – Break.Code.Begin taught me that forgiveness and forgetting are rarely the same ritual. Sometimes, I skip the reply not because I’m done, but because silence hurts cleaner. Do I want him to see me glowing, or imagine I’m glowing without him? I ache at brunch. Quietly. In the dress he liked. I laugh mid-sip and wonder if he hears it across timelines. Do I dress to haunt? Do I text to confuse? Is this a call, or a goodbye too soft to type? He doesn't text back. I don't notice - until I scroll. Until I smile at someone else a...

How to Glow Where No One Touches

There are places no one touches, yet they ache the loudest. Inside hips that remember too much. Beneath breath that holds back sound. Between thighs that steam after silence. Maybe the ache isn’t what we fear - maybe it’s what keeps us soft. Should I take rose extract to feel more edible? Why do I sip aloe at night, hoping moisture becomes memory? How do I prepare for his mouth without words? Do I crave balm to soothe, or to seduce? What if I glow with ashwagandha not for health - but to feel touchable? Do I crave moisture because I want to be tasted? Can jasmine remind him of my thighs? Why do I wear silk underneath nothing? Is my yoni glow a signal or a secret? Should I jade egg before a date or steam to release shame? In pigeon pose, I don’t stretch I confess. My hips remember hands I’ve forgotten. Do I cry in savasana because I want someone to see it? Is yoga a kink or camouflage? Why do I arch in plank like I want to be noticed? I sip hibiscus tea to feel kissed in...

How to Beg Like a Mistress

What if begging didn’t sound desperate but divine? To beg like a mistress means to offer power while holding it, to seduce without asking, to tremble with precision. Every glance, every delay, every heel is a code. Some women don’t cry; they shimmer. Some don’t ask; they wear want in satin. Some disappear in silence - but leave the room burning. There are women who fold their desire into lace. Who ask with perfume. Who break men with stillness. Who wear control in blush and guilt in red. To ache like that is not weakness. It’s design. You don’t need to shout to be felt. You only need to be worn like a question no one can stop asking. I shop for silence, fold pain into velvet thongs, light candles like curses. I don’t kneel to men. I kneel to ritual. But sometimes, I can’t tell the difference. Do I ache in fire signs or in his silence? Do I glow when unloved? Do I wax only when heartbroken? Do I bleach my silence, exfoliate guilt, steam for the one who won’t return? E...