The door is closed. The world quiets. My name doesn’t echo off anyone else’s expectations. Here, I am unobserved — and therefore honest.
The room wraps around me like it knows my measurements. Corners hold pieces of me I left behind on other days. The floor remembers my weight. The walls keep my secrets without asking questions.
I don’t shrink here.
I don’t stretch either.
I exist at my natural size.
There is relief in not being required. In not responding. In letting silence sit beside me without trying to fill it. Solitude doesn’t isolate me — it returns me to myself.
Few people meet me here.
Fewer understand this version of me.
But she is real. And she is enough.
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