The Alchemy of Curated Serenity

The wool against my skin isn't just texture; it’s a tactical concealment of the jagged glass in my ribs. They call this 'healing'—a pastoral retreat where the air is thin and the lies are breathable. I wear blue because it screams peace to those who lack the stomach for red.
He watches from behind his camera, a puppet master in a designer coat, trying to capture the moment I let my guard drop. He thinks he’s saving me with this vista of snow-dusted peaks and still waters. Little does he know, every glance I throw toward the lens is a calculated strike. My smile is a curated artifact, polished until it reflects his own desperate need for something pure.
We are playing at romance in a landscape that doesn't care about our pulse rates. He wants to hold my hand; I want to hold his reputation hostage. Let him believe I am being mended by the mountains. In reality, I am carving out my new empire in the quietest of ways. This isn't healing—it’s a hostile takeover wrapped in cashmere.

Editor: Vogue Assassin