I don't rush anymore.
The craving is there – steady, warm, familiar – but it doesn't rule me. Not this time.
I stand in front of the mirror in the soft morning light. The room feels quiet, almost reverent. My breath moves easily. My hands trace the curve of my waist, the shape of my hips, the fullness of my thighs. I study the way fabric clings and pulls – the faint press of soft cotton, the way the lines of me rise and fall beneath it.
I look different.
My body has changed. Not drastically. Not for anyone else. But I see it. The softness where I used to be sharp. The gentle sway in my walk. The way my hands move over my own skin with something like affection.
The warmth stirs low as I move, but I let it build without chasing it. My fingertips trail over the slope of my stomach, down the outside of my thigh, but I don't press further. Not yet.
I meet my own eyes in the mirror.
I like what I see.
The craving hums, sweet and low, as I breathe in and out. I don't need to rush. I don't need to break. I can hold this. Carry it.
And I know – without question – that I want to.
I take my time.
The craving hums under everything – soft but alive. I dress slowly, deliberately, each layer chosen for how it feels, how it fits, how it holds.
Cotton first. Then something thinner. A soft pair of tights. A skirt that brushes mid-thigh. Each fabric adds weight – not heaviness, but presence. I smooth my hands down over the final layers, over the soft swell of my hips, the gentle curve of my legs.
I look in the mirror again.
The reflection is mine, but sharper. Softer and sharper at once. My lips curve, my eyes half-lidded. I'm not thinking of anyone else. I'm thinking of me. How I feel in this. How the warmth stirs just beneath the skin, how it slides through every breath without rushing.
I layer a sweater over the top. Casual. Unremarkable. But I know what's underneath.
I breathe out slowly, fingertips brushing the hem of my skirt, the warmth curling close but not breaking.
I could push further. I could chase it. But I don't.
Not yet.
For now, I savor the weight of it. The knowing.
And when I step out the door, I carry the ritual with me.
The city moves around me – soft, slow, ordinary.
I walk the streets the way I always have. The air is cool. The sky pale. The layers cling soft against my skin, each breath warming the quiet ache that hums beneath it all.
But I'm steady.
The craving stirs, but I don't chase it. I let it swell, let it curl tight under my ribs, but I move the same. My steps are calm. My breath is light. My hands brush the hem of my coat now and then, but I don't give in.
Not fully.
I savor it instead.
The press of fabric. The weight between my legs. The soft friction when I shift, when I sit, when I move. It sharpens the edges, but I hold it. I wear it.
I feel alive.
When I glance in a shop window, I meet my own eyes. My smile is small but real. I carry the warmth without fear now, without panic.
I know this won't fade.
And I know I'm ready for more.