You open one old bruise and suddenly the whole system starts behaving like a woman who found a Notes app folder called “drafts I never sent,” three screenshots of conversations she should have left on read, a boxing class she booked and never attended, a return policy she missed by four months, and one extremely spiritual urge to throw her phone into soup. Very elegant. Very human. Very “I’m fine,” said by someone reorganizing the spice rack with tears on her chin and murder in her posture and a Pinterest board open called “minimalist rage.”
Because when the sore place under the breastbone gets touched, the body does not begin with philosophy. It begins with heat. With pulse. With the throat going narrow like a door that suddenly remembers it has a lock. With the ribs pulling in as if your own chest briefly forgot you were on the same team.
