The days move softly.
I keep to the quiet. The small patterns I've built. The warmth doesn't pull at me sharply – it hums, steady, low, something I carry now without needing to think.
But something else has started to settle beneath it.
I notice it in the mirror most. Not when I'm dressing. Not when I'm still. When I'm moving – stretching, lifting, shifting through the small motions I've made part of my day.
It's not sharp. It's not wild. But it's there.
The way my hips shift. The line of my legs. The soft way my breath catches not from effort, but from something underneath.
I don't act on it. Not yet. But it stays longer now. The warmth doesn't fade when I stop moving. It lingers – deeper. Heavier. A low thrum in the center of me.
That night, when I sit by the mirror again, my fingertips brush the inside of my thigh without meaning to. Just a graze. But the breath I let out is different this time.
I smile. The same way I always do.
But it doesn't settle the way it used to.
There's something under it now. Something restless. A weight I can feel but not name.
And when I fall asleep, I carry it with me.
The next morning, I move differently.
I'm not thinking about it at first. I stretch. I bend. The quiet warmth of motion settles into me, the way it always does. But when I shift into the deeper poses – when my hands press down, when my hips lift – I catch the shape of myself in the mirror.
And it catches me back.
The softness of my thighs. The way my breath comes faster. The curve of me under the light. It doesn't feel innocent. Not anymore.
My body hums – not just from movement, but from something richer. Deeper. The warmth blooms quietly under skin and breath. I can feel the line of it when I lower into each stretch, when I rise, when I hold.
I don't touch. I don't have to.
The sensation itself – the glide of motion, the way fabric clings, the way my muscles pull and release – carries the weight of something more.
When I stop, I'm flushed. My breath is soft. My fingertips brush my side absently as I step away, but I feel the thrum still, heavy and low.
I glance back once at the mirror.
I'm smiling again.
But it's different.
The quiet doesn't fade.
Even after the mat is rolled. Even after the motions end. The warmth stays – low, steady, alive.
I sit by the mirror without meaning to. My hands settle over my thighs, my breath still soft from movement. I trace idle shapes over the fabric, not pressing, not chasing, just feeling the shape of myself beneath it.
The sensation hums.
The thought drifts.
I could touch. I could press deeper. The idea doesn't frighten me. It doesn't even push at me sharply. It sits there, soft as breath, patient and waiting.
I don't act on it.
But I know I will.
The smile comes again – smaller this time. Fainter. But there. My reflection holds it steady. I catch the faint glow in my skin, the curve of my lips, the softness of my eyes.
It's not hunger yet. Not truly.
But the seed of it is there.
I fall asleep with the shape of it still in me. Gentle. Quiet.
But awake.