The system has moved from “process your feelings with dignity” into “touch grass, eat protein, admit the thing.” Naturally, half the internal staff is treating desire like a suspicious attachment from an unknown sender, a tax audit with lip gloss, or a wellness retreat where everyone has to say their needs out loud while holding eye contact with a ceramic bowl.
Your pelvis holds the yes before your brain even writes the question. Desire lives below language. Below logic. Below the elaborate scaffolding of reasons you’ve built to justify the ache that’s been sleeping in your hips since before you had a name for it. It rises first as heat, weight, saliva, pulse, the small electric animal behind the ribs finally putting one paw on the door.
Somewhere above the body, the room is marble, quiet, and expensive enough to make every human explanation look underdressed.
Resonance stands near the window, one gloved finger resting on a brass dial.
Resonance: Frequency shift detected.
Coherence looks up from her notes. Her pen actually pauses.
Coherence: Oh. She wants something plainly.
Resonance: Brave.
Coherence: Dangerous.
Across the room, Collapse enters, adjusts one dial, and removes an entire shelf labeled Reasons I Am Allowed To Want This.
Collapse: Unnecessary.
Coherence inhales like someone just witnessed a miracle in excellent lighting.
Coherence: Four whole seconds without self-abandonment. Personal best.
Resonance: She will try to turn it into a five-part ethical dissertation.
Collapse: She won’t.
The upper room does not applaud. It has manners. It simply watches the body stop negotiating with old furniture.
