Some mornings I recognise myself by the way clothes fall wrong.

A shoulder insisting. A hem refusing order.

I learned intimacy without witnesses.

In rooms where nothing promised to stay except breath, except the weight of my own name pressing back.

To choose myself was never heroic. It happened quietly, like skin deciding not to flinch anymore.

Fabric listens better than people. It keeps what the body cannot say.

Heat. Doubt.

The echo of leaving and returning. I am not complete. I am continuous. This is not devotion.

It is endurance with a pulse. A slow agreement between nerve and gesture.

I move forward without ceremony.

Still attached. Still unfinished. Still here.

Married to myself – not as a vow, but as a vocation.