The Red That Does Not Need Your Permission

Everyone tells you to soften, to let the red mean something tender. I let it mean whatever I want. The morning light through the glass is doing all the flattering, and yet here I am in the floral crop top and the slit skirt, not performing for a prince but catching myself mid-breath. He used to say love was a slow fade; I told him love is the exact second he stops flinching when I talk too fast about my work. That day by the window, holding my own camera at arm's length, I felt the warmth that no one can hand me: the kind where you are the plot, not the prop. The city outside keeps its indifferent rhythm; inside, my body is a quiet rebellion in red. Healing, I learned, is not being rescued. It is standing this close to the glass and realizing the reflection finally looks back with eyes that have seen everything and chosen themselves anyway.

Editor: Sharp Anna